Final Fantasy XII - Forever's End
by Flake of Snow
Summary: A new era dawns on Ivalice. Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca threw off the shackles of Occurian domination, and put the reins of history back in the hands of Man. But forever have the Occuria reigned, and they are relentless. The hard-won peace may yet turn into war, and in their bid to prevent forever's end, the Occuria may yet have discovered a second, more pliable descendant...
1. Prologue - Gabranth

**_Year 708, March 18, Old Valendian Calendar_**

 ** _Two Years after the Battle of Rabanastre_**

The sound of Gabranth's boots striking the marbled floor echoed throughout the corridor, even as his mail clinked and his plates rattled. It was repetitive and it was metallic, doubtless irritating to one not used to it. But to a soldier like him, it was one of the most comforting sounds in all of Ivalice, a permanent reminder that he was clad in the very finest full plate mail that the Archadian Empire had at its disposal. Breastplate, gauntlets, pauldrons, platelegs, greaves, tasset... Together, they formed a behemoth of steel, complete with the horned, eyeless visage that was his and his alone among the Judge Magisters - those men and women who embodied the Law of Archadia, an authority that bowed to the Emperor and the Emperor alone.

It was a comfort he welcomed, this day. _It is a comfort I need,_ he mused, somewhat bitterly.

A Judge Magister would not be called to the lower levels of the Imperial Palace for no good reason. A Judge, maybe, but not a Magister – not Gabranth. The Judge Magisters, five in number, were at the very top of the Imperial chain of command. Elite guard to House Solidor, they were effectively the commanders of the Imperial Army. All twelve fleets of it, a destructive force unrivalled in all the world, save for the Rozarrian Military. One did not call for a General's presence without good reason.

Nor did one call for the personal bodyguard of Emperor Larsa Solidor himself without good reason. _But am I here as bodyguard, or as commander?_ Gabranth wondered. He was impatient to be done with this, for while he left Larsa in the hands of soldiers he trusted, he was not truly at ease unless he was near.

 _No, not even then,_ he noted dryly. Larsa was, after all, the very last of his line. If something were to happen to him...

He turned a corner, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was required, cape flowing behind him – black, like his mood, the red of the Empire emblazoned upon the center - before once more following him, occasionally pushed back by his tasset as he placed one leg in front of the other, over and over. Larsa coming to harm simply was not worth thinking about. It would be a disaster. _It will not happen,_ he thought, simply, as though that were all it took to make it so. His left hand tightened around the hilt of the blade sheathed at his left hip, not quite a longsword and not quite a scimitar, its twin on his right hip but a few inches shorter. One to strike, one to parry. A style he was unused to – or had been, once.

He'd had years to adapt, since rising to his brother's station.

Behind his helmet, he lifted his eyes, letting them drift about. Lower level of the palace or not, it was still impressive, masterfully built with both function and beauty in mind. A marble floor of alternating grey hues met walls of white, banners bearing the black and red of House Solidor filling each pillar. To his left were pillars of stone, creating doorways that allowed the sun to shine through. Sconces for torches were on the walls, but for now they were unlit; there was simply no need save at night.

To his right, a door here, a door there, each of wood reinforced with iron and steel – and behind each, he knew there would be clerks and accountants, hard at work, fuelling the machine that was the Empire. It was a wide corridor, but easily defensible, even by a small number of soldiers. He was approaching yet another stairway, going down yet again, and as he proceeded down – ever careful not to fall, heavy as his armor was; what a travesty that would be, Judge Magister Gabranth tripping over the stairs! - his cape trailed after him, dragging itself along the steps after him like an eager puppy.

Gabranth heard voices, up ahead, some clear, others muffled by helmets. _Almost there, then. Good._ He was eager to get this over with, and return to what he was really here for. He passed a pair of clerks, clad in light greys and blacks as most state servants were. They had been muttering to each other, but at first sight of him, they immediately swept aside and gave him a wide berth, allowing him by. He never even looked at them. The voices grew louder the closer he came, no less intense, now accompanied by quiet murmurs of question and confusion, of speculation. A crowd, then.

And then, as he turned another corner to the left but a few meters away, he came to a stop, experienced eyes roving over the scene in front of him. Irritation at being called died, replaced by sudden discomfort – and understanding. Yes, he would be called for _this_ , wouldn't he?

Ahead, a dozen meters away, a number of clerks and assorted civilians were gathered, not as a mob but as a loose crowd, occasionally angling or standing on tip toes in an attempt at looking past the phalanx in front of them. Imperial soldiers, helmets impassive masks not entirely unlike his own, clad in a dark grey of plate and mail, less fine than his own but no less effective. Oh yes, they were _very_ effective, as he well knew, unable to count the amount of times his blade had clashed against them.

They were assembled in a straight line, tower shields in one hand and spears in the other, and they were closely knit, clearly preventing any from seeing past them to whatever lay beyond. Above them he could see other spears rising into the air, and Gabranth knew that there was another phalanx on the other side, no doubt guarding whatever lay within from another crowd. The question died on Gabranth's lips before he could speak it. There was only one thing that could possibly have caused this, he knew. This was not the first time.

"Make way for the Judge Magister!" Called one of the guards near to the centre, and immediately heads in the crowd turned, soon after stepping left and right, that they not be trampled beneath Gabranth's charge. At his approach, the guards gave way, allowing him past before seamlessly closing the line up again. They were well trained, after all – and this was not a difficult job.

As he passed by, Gabranth briefly turned his head to the left. "Disperse these crowds, have them return to their business," he said, quietly but with authority, and the soldier nodded his head once, turning to do just that, even as Gabranth proceeded forward past the line proper. He came to a stop just inside, and he stared, taking only a few tentative steps forward.

Blood marred the pristine marble floor, gashes of red scattered about the area here and there. Three soldiers in Imperial armor lay dead on the ground. They had not been moved, Gabranth could see; they had been left where they fell. One's sword remained in its scabbard; he had not even received the opportunity to draw it before being felled. The other two had their blades out, for all the good it had done them – blows to the legs and chest had slain them as surely as their comrade. Their armor was impeccable save for the blood; the plate was undamaged. It was the mail underneath that had been pierced.

Whoever had killed these men had been skilled, to hit the joints and the weak points of the armor so flawlessly – which tied in with the other bodies.

Two other bodies were nearby, both similar and completely different to the imperial soldiers. They wore little save for cloth, black in color, with hints of dark blue here and there. Each one had wielded a dagger in each hand, marred with blood – the weapons that had slain these soldiers. They were both dead, each of a stab wound, perhaps a bit larger than a stab from a sword had any right to be. Which left...

"Zargabaath," Gabranth said by way of greeting to his fellow Judge Magister, who stood to the side, likewise looking at the bodies, making no move to disrupt them. His helmet – a two-pronged thing that reminded him much of a bull's horns – was held between his left hand and his hip, exposing head and hair. He was an old man, hair and trimmed beard alike grey. His eyes, wrinkled as the skin around them were, held a note of compassion – and of concern. His armor was light, at least by the standards of a Judge; he lacked platelegs and armor on his arms, all the more to move quickly and rapidly, a trait that had saved him on more than one occasion.

Zargabaath was perhaps the most diplomatic and genuinely _nice_ figure from the old Magisters, and – strictly speaking – was the sole survivor among them. _A lesson to be learned there, methinks_ , Gabranth thought. He, like Larsa before him, served as a living reminder to Gabranth. Not all Imperials were like Bergen, or Vayne. _Just like not all Dalmascans are like Queen Ashelia, or Vaan,_ Gabranth reflected. It was not a pleasant realization.

"Gabranth," came the rough voice in response, and Zargabaath inclined his head in a half-bow of sorts, even as he turned his attention back to the corpses. He gestured towards them with his right hand, even as Gabranth neared him, making no move to remove his own helmet. At Gabranth's glance, Zargabaath carried on; this was no time for pleasantries, after all.

"Two more, like before. Ten minutes ago, as I was leading these men forward on a routine patrol of the premises, the two charged out of that side door-" he said, accompanied by a gesture with his right hand that Gabranth followed, briefly staring at the open door in question even as Zargabaath continued, "-and rushed us. One died before he could draw his blade; the other two fell quickly, but bought me the time to draw my weapons. Perhaps they thought me too old to use them?" Zargabaath asked rhetorically, an empty attempt at mirth that Gabranth did not share. It died, quickly enough. Just like his men.

He simply stared – not at the soldiers, but at the two figures clad in black cloth. Assassins. Skirmishers. "Pendants?" Gabranth asked, and Zargabaath merely nodded once, mouth open lightly, releasing light breaths. _Despite your jest, my friend, you_ are _an old man_ , Gabranth thought, sober.

"There was little point in asking, was there?" Gabranth asked rhetorically, shaking his head even as he reached up to unclasp and remove his helmet, shaking his head briefly once more; the common rule of all helmets was that they were a nightmare for hair, even cut short as his was. A shaven beard of blonde adorned his jaw, hair more gold than yellow, flowing and medium unlike his brother's spiked and short. Even without the scar over his left brow and the set of his facial features, it was enough for people to tell; this was not the 'old' Gabranth, the hound of Gramis and Vayne. This was a different creature entirely.

They had grown used to it. What was done, was done.

"Rozarrians," Basch said simply, as though it were a curse.

"Rozarrians," Zargabaath confirmed, with a slow nod. _Just like the last five times,_ Basch thought. He should have seen it coming; what else would Zargabaath call him down here for? He turned to the right to look at Zargabaath, even as he held his helmet – his brother's helmet, truly – in his right hand, staring at a man he would once had gladly cut down. A man who, he knew, he would grieve if ever he were to die. Not just because they were allies, but because they were friends.

Over their conversation, Basch could hear the guard beginning to move forward, still in that line; they were clearing away the crowds as far as they dared, encouraging them to move on and away. Best that nobody knew what was happening here, for now; best that nobody knew that Rozarrians were sending assassins to cull off their men, had sent assassins after a Judge Magister. Larsa's command, one that Basch and Zargabaath alike had agreed to without argument. Nobody wanted another war. _Except for the Rozarrians, apparently,_ Basch corrected himself.

"The guard are clearing away the crowds," Basch said, even as Zargabaath turned his attention back to him. "I will inform the Emperor post-haste; clear away the bodies like before," he said. Not that he needed to; it had become routine for the two of them, by this point. The soldiers would receive proper burials, and their families due compensation.

The assassins, on the other hand...well, they needed all the information that they could get. And while they could not raise these unwilling souls from the dead, they could at least examine the bodies. Any information was more than he expected, by this point.

"I'll send word if we find anything new," Zargabaath said, without much hope in his voice. And Basch understood, entirely - for the bodies only ever contained enough to confirm they were Rozarrian, an oddity that had Judge Magister and Emperor alike stumped. Why would the Rozarrians _want_ the Archadians to know who was attacking them? Basch shook his head soon after, even as he lifted his helmet to pull it back on. _Silly question,_ Basch thought, as once more he became Gabranth. He was no politician – but he was a soldier, and he knew when somebody was chomping at the bit for a fight. _But why? Why would they want a war?_ wondered Basch.

Gabranth reached up with his now freed right hand to briefly pat Zargabaath on the shoulder, even as he turned away and broke through the Imperial line once more, returning from whence he came, to deliver his ill tidings.

* * *

"How many?" The Emperor asked, voice no less youthful than it had been two years ago. _At least the burden of Empire has not stripped that much from him,_ Basch thought, thankful.

They were in his private quarters. The sun shone through glassless windows behind the Emperor's seat and desk, a room-wide balcony that surrounded the place; indeed, they were less quarters and more a space for relaxation and lounging. Floor, walls, ceiling and pillars alike were marble, his table made out of class and a chair of the finest wood and velvet. Only the very best for the Archadian Emperor, after all.

The table was large enough to fit five, though the other four chairs were on the opposite side; for now, empty, the Emperor was free to view the small waterfalls in front of him, spilling into a small canal-like pool to the side, a similar spectacle behind him. It was a comforting enough place; the sound of flowing water, of a light wind blowing, of birdsong in the distance. A cloudless day, with the sun shining. _Dark tidings, for such a day._

"Three," Basch said immediately, aware of precisely what Larsa was asking him. He always asked for his own men before the enemy's. He cared more for preserving lives than taking them. Hands clasped behind his back, between cape and backplate, he stared into the distance, watching a number of pigeons take flight towards the rest of Archades. "Judge Zargabaath was with them," Basch continued, "and felled his attackers, two in number. Both are dead. This was thirty minutes ago," he concluded, never once turning his attention away from the horizon.

Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, Emperor of the Archadian Emperor and Last Scion of House Solidor, sighed. Leaning forward with his elbows on his table, he placed his quill back into its inkpot and reached up with gloved hands to cover his face with them, no doubt rubbing at eyes both weary and sorrowful. He had not asked after Zargabaath, of course. He knew Basch would have said something had there been need. "Fourteen, then. Fourteen had died to these assassins, and we are no closer to discovering why," Larsa said, fatigue in his voice.

"The why is clear," Basch countered, with a sideways glance at his Emperor. "They want war."

Larsa shook his head briefly, even as he leaned back in his chair, staring at one of the waterfalls. "We don't know that. We don't know if this is House Margrace – or any House at all. It could be a single party, a splinter faction. It could be completely unrelated to Rozarria. It could be somebody baiting us to attack them," Larsa continued. "We don't _know_ , and I dare not act without the knowing. Too much is at stake."

Basch grunted in understanding; it was a conversation they had had already, five times over, each time the assassins struck. "I would pay much to discover how they continue to access the Palace," he growled, briefly flicking his gaze to Gabranth's helmet. The faceless visage stared at him from Larsa's table. Accusing.

For a moment, his eyes swept over Larsa's desk, finding the map to the right, closest to Basch and his helmet. Archadia in the north and the east, covering almost all of the continent of Valendia; Rozarrian covering almost the entirety of the western continent Ordalia, with small slices of Kerwon to the south being taken by one side or the other, more outposts than anything else. And trapped in between the two continents was the area commonly referred to as Galtea, where the Republic of Landis – Basch's own homeland, long since devoured by the Archadian Empire – and the Kingdoms of Nabradia – likewise taken in the war, four years past – and Dalmasca lay. Dalmasca...

The thought leapt to his mind, not for the first time – and not for the first time did he ask. "What of Queen Ashelia? Does she have similar troubles?" Basch asked, perhaps a bit too formally. It still rankled at him, at times, that he was at Larsa's side instead of hers. He understood the need, of course, but still...

"We have not received word, no," Larsa said, a note of compassionate understanding entering his voice. "And I dare not inform her. She can be somewhat...susceptible to wroth, as you know. Dalmasca as the battlefield or no, I do not see her sitting idly by if she were to know we were attacked here in the Palace," Larsa explained. "And I fear she might do something rash."

Basch could not disagree. Not at all. "Then we keep our peace, and pray Zargabaath discovers something of import?" He asked, with a glance towards his Emperor. A simple, solemn nod answered him, and Basch turned his head once more to the horizon with a sigh. "This won't last, Your Majesty," he said, formally. "Never before have they attacked a Judge Magister. Whoever 'they' are, they are growing increasingly insistent. We cannot turn the other cheek forever. Sooner or later, they will do something...worse," Basch concluded, for lack of a better word.

"I know," Larsa sighed, once more taking up his quill, left hand moving the paper before him. "But for now, it is all we can do." He paused suddenly, quill almost touching the paper in front of him, before he settled back. "Unless..." A note in his voice caused Basch to look at him, left brow raised ever-so slightly in question.

"Your Majesty?" Basch prompted, as Larsa's silence stretched. As though awoken, Larsa stirred, glancing at Basch briefly, before looking to the paper once more. He properly reached down and grabbed what he was writing, screwed it up, and dropped it into a small bin beside his table, causing Basch's brow to raise ever-so much more. A glint shone in Larsa's eye as he began to write on a new sheet, briefly glancing towards Basch, with a light smile that was both sly and daring, making his face seem that much younger.

"I wonder where Balthier is?" Larsa asked, simply.

Understanding washed over him, and for a moment, he shared his Emperor's smile. _Perfect,_ he thought.

* * *

 **So!**

There we have it, prologue. Hopefully I've whet your appetite enough for you to keep going once I update this thing. Whether I have or haven't, feel free to leave a review to tell me why; I can't improve if I don't know what I am and am not doing right.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this little opener. Feel free to leave theories on what's going on and all that stuff in a review too, if you so wish. I've no set date for the next update, but it shouldn't be all that long; wouldn't want to lose momentum, after all.

So, see you next time I guess?


	2. Chapter One - Aedan

_**"The Illusions of the past. You think to have cast them off, only to find them years later, unwearying, unrelenting. The past can bind a man as surely as irons."**_

 _~Sky Pirate Reddas_

 _ **One week later...**_

The wind howled as it blew through the streets of Rabanastre, turning down this alleyway and then that, a chill sweeping across the city that made the cold, dark night colder still. As the wind swept down through the Southern Plaza, several figures formerly huddled by the large ornamental fountain at the centre scattered, fleeing in short order to the north-east, towards the East End of Rabanastre, apparently no longer interested in lingering. Only a few remained, some clad in cloaks and others not at all, almost all of them Humes wearing the scant clothing so often encountered in the desert nation of Dalmasca, of which Rabanastre was the capital.

The Southern Plaza had always been a popular place for the citizenry to hang around; at night or at day, it was not uncommon for people to simply settle back and watch as people came and went, enjoying the waters of the fountain and the soft breeze – a welcome enough thing in the heat of the day, but the source of many an irritated curse during the cold nights. Yet still people came here, for despite the cold the nightlife in Rabanastre was alive and well.

Now, almost all were moving to one destination or another – all save for one, a single figure clad in a ragged brown cloak, worn from travel and use. Almost all of them were moving north-east, seeking the entrance to the East End, much more protected from the aggressive wind than this exposed arena. Some scattered instead to the west, to the south, to the east, to one of the three large gateway entrances that led to the city exits. But this figure alone faced the north. Beyond the railing and above the rooftops, hooded and cloaked, he stared forward towards the Royal Palace in the distance. Even from here, he could see lights shining through windows, though he knew it was at least half a mile away. Visible from almost any place in Rabanastre – provided the viewer had the proper height – the Royal Palace was a colossal structure, a building of whites and greys. The windows, the figure knew, would have been tinted with dark blue, a contrast to the lighter blues that highlighted parts of the wall; typical Galtean Architecture, and one of the few examples of it still remaining in the modern world.

But architecture was far from his mind as he stared. The wind attacked him, forced his cloak about to briefly expose feet clothed in leather boots, to expose legs armored in ramshackle, put-together plating, but he never looked away, nor deigned to so much as reach down in a vain attempt at controlling his cloak. With it draped over his shoulders and fastened by a brooch just over his collar, he knew he needn't fear it flying off into the distance. And besides, the ferocity of Dalmascan nights rarely ever bothered him. Not anymore.

 _Promise me, Aedan._

The figure known as Aedan abruptly turned to the right and walked away without comment, cloak falling about him as the wind swept past where he had stood, heedless of his passage. _Not tonight,_ he thought, for what felt like the thousandth time. _Not tonight._

Reaching up with both hands at long last to make an effort at keeping his cloak about him, he passed by a Bangaa heading the opposite way, who smoothly pivoted out of the way, leaning into his left shoulder just as Aedan did the same, and they passed without greeting nor contact; such was best at this time of the night, even in the relatively safe streets of Rabanastre. The Knights of Dalmasca had been reinstalled two years past, as the Kingdom of Dalmasca was restored. Serving both as standing military and as police force, they were an honorable and noble force of soldiers, ready to give their all in service to their Queen. They warded and patrolled the streets of the city, day and night, keeping an eternal vigil against any that would harm the citizenry; indeed, one was immediately to Aedan's left as he entered the north-east corner of the plaza. While he wore the usual 'scant' armor of a Dalmascan Soldier, put-together plating that left the chest mostly exposed, he also wore a cloak to shield him from the night's cold. A gladius at his left hip and a buckler strapped to his right arm told the passing man all he needed to know, and they exchanged friendly nods in passing. _It costs a man nothing to be polite,_ Aedan mused.

And they were utterly hopeless when it came to fighting genuine crime. Aedan was intimately familiar with that unpleasant truth.

 _Lucky for them, then, that crime never really happens in this city,_ he noted, with a light scoff under his breath. Just as not all Archadians were warmongering brutes, neither were all Dalmascans decent neighbours – but the vast majority were. While more than a few skirted the law - particularly the many street urchins that populated its alleys – many were possessed of a genuine desire to get along with one another, and a true love of their monarchy, traits that pooled to build a rather pleasant city. _And who can blame them?_

As he neared the corner of the southern plaza, he ascended a few small steps and turned faintly to the right, proceeding through a corridor several meters long, the connecting passageway between the East End and the Southern Plaza. Oh, there were countless other little passageways and alleys, but this was the 'official' route travelled by 'respectable' citizens, and he had no doubt that eyes were watching in the darkness that even his perception had not picked up on. He had no desire to be seen as anything but respectable, at this particular point in time.

It was joke enough to bring a light smile to his face. It was not for nothing that he had donned the hood, after all.

He turned left as he exited the corridor, not even pausing to take in the view. It was a long boulevard. To his immediate right, as advertised to him by a green sign, was Migelo's Supplies and Sundries. Migelo was a kind old Bangaa, common of blood but noble of heart, known for exacting service – and housing and providing jobs for numerous street urchins, giving them at least the chance at work experience. He was a good man, beloved by many in Rabanastre, the next thing to a local celebrity. A good man, to be sure, a man whom Aedan went out of his way to avoid inconveniencing. _And they call me a monster,_ Aedan laughed bitterly under his breath at the thought. Even monsters had standards, apparently.

He proceeded, passing another pair of what appeared to be Humes, a male and a female, absorbed in whispering sweet nothings at one another as they passed him by, barely noticing him at all. The man was clad in a cloak and was half-heartedly attempting to take the woman inside of it as they walked along, an attempt he was failing dismally at. _It's far too small, the idiot,_ Aedan thought as he passed them by, briefly lifting his right hand and taking the edge of his hood between finger and thumb, 'tipping' it as one would a hat in a passing courtesy, causing man and woman alike to chuckle in return greeting. No doubt a pair of revellers, not at all an uncommon sight. _At least_ somebody _is going to get lucky tonight._

To his left, the weapon shop. It and its twin, the armor shop just opposite, were places he rarely visited, if ever; he had all the equipment he felt he needed, and if he needed more, he knew there was better available elsewhere. Without a glance he continued, angling slightly to the left into a large square. To his immediate right was one of the stairwells that led to Lowtown.

Four years past, after the war – _No, more like an execution,_ Aedan corrected himself bitterly – with Archadia, Rabanastre and Dalmasca at large had been subjugated and absorbed into the Archadian Empire. Many of the citizenry that had possessed wealth or anything of particular value were stripped of it, and forced into the underground of Rabanastre, known as Lowtown. Originally a labyrinth of warehouses and storehouses, over the next two years it had been built up into a maze of housing, resembling a living space. It had not disappeared with the Dalmascan Kingdom's restoration; indeed, many still lived down there, though now more often by choice rather than force.

 _A city on top of a city,_ he mused. Why was it that most of the larger settlements were like that? Archades, Rabanastre, Bhujerba...

But Lowtown was not his destination. To the left, opposite that stairwell, was a bridge that led towards the Muthru Bazaar. Ostensibly a place for street-to-street shopping and hawking, in Aedan's opinion it was one of the most distinctive things about Rabanastre – for in his mind, it was more a place to let off steam and trade with unrestrained aggression than anything else. Part of the very heart and soul of the city. The Imperials had been wise not to suppress it. _Not that it helped them in the end, of course._

That, also, was not his destination. Straight ahead was the Magick shop, a place for the purchase of tomes, books, scrolls and other arcane implements to further one's knowledge and learning in the Arcane mysteries. He, for one, had no use for such a place. As he neared it he instead turned right, proceeding down the street between Lowtown's entrance and the Magick shop. On he walked, a whisper of mirth and laughter in the distance growing louder with each step, before slowly coming to a stop, turning ever-so faintly to the right and facing the entrance, from behind which the laughter resounded once more. _The laughter - and the stench,_ Aedan noted, resisting the impulse to reach up with his right hand and waft it in front of his nose.

He quickly found himself corrected, however, for it was not the Sandsea itself that was the source of that smell; rather, it was a Hume man slumped against the pillar to his right, several bottles surrounding him, one of which being in his hand. In the dark of the night it was hard to see, precisely, what the liquid on the floor beside him was, even with the street lighting – but Aedan was willing to hazard a guess that it was nothing he wanted anything to do with.

"All the best," Aedan murmured under his breath to the drunk as he passed the man by, and he received a drunken slurring in return that sounded, Aedan imagined, much like a cat being strangled. _Incredible,_ he thought, shaking his head slowly even as he reached out with his right hand to open the door ahead of him, prepared for the sound of laughter and the smell of alcohol and sweat to wash over him in a wave.

What he was not prepared for, however, was the door slamming open towards him with bodies flying out. His body moved even as his mind was processing what his eyes were seeing – two men exchanging a flurry of blows, too entangled in one another's arms to really make a respectable effort at moving properly. Aedan slid smoothly to the right on his feet, outstretched right hand instead turning to the left as he placed it on the shoulder of one of the brawlers, gently pushing to the left – even as his left foot remained in their path.

Blindly stumbling forward, all their attention on one another, the result was inevitable. With cries of surprise they fell; first the one closest to Aedan, then the second, too drunk to let go in time. They collapsed on the ground in a pile of sweat, the wits apparently stunned out of them, for they were no longer swinging at each other – at least for now. The expected laughter and smells fell upon Aedan's back, turned to the entrance as it was, and he took a brief moment to look at the two men – and the drunk beyond them, who had begun to yell at them, once more sounding much akin to a feline being murdered. Aedan couldn't understand a word. He considered himself lucky.

The pair were typical Dalmascans; they were not big or burly, but downright average in musculature and build. Wearing little more than pantaloons, shoes and those vests and jackets that were so common in this Kingdom, they were dressed for the warm heat of a desert – not the sharp cold of night. Neither of them seemed to feel it, however, and as they realized what had happened, they fell upon one another again, one quickly gaining the advantage and crawling upon the other, raining down blows – or at least attempting to.

Aedan heard footsteps behind him, could tell the owner was in a rush by how quickly the steps moved, and he took a single step to the left, watching as another bangaa rushed out. Without effort, he reached down and grabbed each drunk by the collar, pulling them apart even as they insisted on battling. _The bouncer, then,_ Aedan concluded. Bangaa were known for being a fair bit stronger on the physical level than the average Hume; it was not uncommon to see them fulfilling such a role. Freed of any obligation he might feel to separate the two, now that he knew there was a man whose express purpose was exactly that, the cloaked man turned without guilt and entered the bustling tavern known only as the Sandsea.

As he usually did upon entry, he immediately took a step to the left to clear the doorway and paused near to the wall, and took stock of his surroundings. It was a necessity, in this place.

The Sandsea was larger than one immediately suspected from the outside. It was a tavern of two floors, the first considerably larger than the second, stretching to the right from the door and only a short way to the left. Many round tables with stools and benches covered the floor in seemingly haphazard fashion, leaving only two clear paths; one to the counter on the opposite side of the room from the entrance, and the other to the Hunt Board.

The Hunt Board was, as the name implied, a large board full of notices, postings and bills, all detailing requests and petitions for the tracking and elimination of what was referred to as 'Marks'. Many hunters, headhunters and would-be adventurers had built something of a career on providing this service, dedicating themselves to the destruction of nasties for pay. In the Sandsea, the board was to the right of the entrance, sharing the same wall but several meters away. _It may as well be a mile away with this many people flying around,_ Aedan grunted.

For indeed the bottom floor was _packed_. The noise was a cacophony, and only barely could the man hear himself think over the clinking of glasses, the frenzied mutters and the raucous laughter. He could see humes, bangaa and Seeq – large, fat, thuggish creatures often valued for hard labor and shock troopers – alike gathered about tables and the counter, unified in their love of chatter and alcohol. _And what a love affair it is,_ Aedan smirked, recalling the drunk just outside.

To his left, by contrast, were a few smaller tables and stools, largely inhabited by moogles. The small winged creatures, furry by nature, barely reached Aedan's knees most of the time. Widely valued for their mechanical skills, they were the original creators of Airships – and the Skystones and Glossair Rings that enabled them to fly. _We owe much of civilization as we know it to these little bastards,_ Aedan noted, and he inclined his head in a half-bow to one that briefly made eye contact with him, causing the recipient to blink and tilt his head to the right in confusion. He was quickly distracted by his partner, however.

Between right and left, ahead and ever-so slightly to the left, was the flight of stairs that led to the second floor – which was truly nothing more than a balcony. It was there that the most 'valued' or private of patrons tended to reside, and there was his destination. Immediately, Aedan approached the unguarded stairwell. The balcony guarded itself; those who were not welcome or had no business up there were quickly chased away by an audience of glares and mutterings.

As he neared it, however, he briefly spared a glance to the right, searching behind the counter for... _Ah, there he is,_ Aedan thought even as he nodded at Tomaj, who briefly made eye contact and nodded in return, a mutual acknowledgement of one another's presence. Tomaj was a man dressed much like other Dalmascans, with short dusty brown hair and a deceptively average appearance, impossible to pick out in a crowd – and he was the owner of the Sandsea. While strictly speaking he stood by the law, it was widely known within certain circles that various criminals were welcome under his roof, so long as they behaved themselves.

That was, after all, why he was here.

In short order he was on the second floor, and within seconds he found who he was looking for. Without bothering with anybody else, he sidled up to the table in the back corner, right next to the railing, with a perfect – and concealed – view over the entirety of the Sandsea.

"And here he is. Right on cue," came the greeting as Aedan paused beside the table, facing the two seated at it. The speaker was seated right by the railing, half on the chair and half settled back on his left elbow atop the railing itself, right hand in his lap. A confident but welcoming smile adorned his face, without a hint of stubble on it; the Sky Pirate prided himself on keeping such an appearance, Aedan knew. Lightish-brown hair with blonde highlights short of cut covered much of his head, exposing ears pierced with earrings and stylized sideburns that made it halfway down the sides of his face. Green eyes flashed up to meet Aedan's deep blue, and it was these that Aedan focused on most, for the man's eyes showed the truth of his character. He was clothed no differently to he always was; a black shirt embroidered heavily with gold, complete with white sleeves, black pants and strangely fashionable shoes. _Not that anybody would be looking down there,_ Aedan conceded.

Balthier was a rather attractive man, after all.

"When am I not?" Aedan asked lightly, and his voice couldn't be more different to Balthier's. Where the Archadian Sky Pirate's voice was formal, polite but cocksure, Aedan's was both deep and light all at the same time. His accent was untraceable; here it was rather formal, but there it was common again, leaving his background firmly unknown. "Fates know you'd give me hell if I were to wander off script," he continued, tone reminiscent to an eyeroll, referencing Balthier's obsession with plays and stories. He always did insist he was the leading man. Always.

"Perhaps if it were in the script," Balthier countered, as Aedan pulled out the chair opposite and slid into it, reaching up with his right hand to remove his hood, keeping his cloak about him; it was not so warm that he could not bear it, after all.

Were one to look at Aedan and Balthier side by side, one might almost think them brothers. Dark brown hair covered his head, shielding almost the entirety of his ears and forehead from view. A light stubble of sorts adorned his jaw, with the faintest of frowns creasing a youthful brow – not in anger or thought, but mere habit, forged out of the need to constantly shield his eyes from a harsh sun. His eyes glinted with unspoken amusement, and a harsh intelligence. He was a handsome man, still clearly in the prime of his youth; the only flaws were the smallest of scars, two on his right jaw and a third on his forehead, slanted towards his right brow, barely visible save in the proper lighting.

Balthier's companion had yet to speak, or do more than stare at Aedan, but he greeted her all the same. "Hello, Fran. You're looking downright dazzling today," he said bluntly, ignoring that faint awkwardness that always struck him when he had to speak to her. Humes and Viera had never been meant to live together, after all, much less speak to one another.

Seated in the chair to Balthier's right and Aedan's left, Fran leant back with her left leg crossed over her right, both hands clasped in her lap at her ease. Her skin was light bronze, and eyes of fierce red stared back at Aedan, and he felt the sudden urge to look away. He persevered. Her hair was long, far longer than would widely be considered acceptable. A luscious silver, it covered much of her back and curled lightly, causing hair that should have been messy, yet remained beautiful in its execution. The typical white bunnyears of a Viera stuck out from the gaps in her helmet, a thing that left much of her face – harsh but beautiful – uncovered.

But her hair was nothing compared to her garb, which would excite comment in even the seediest of bars – for Fran was a Viera, and the Viera cared nothing for nudity. Wearing a combination of black cloth and leather, complete with metal plates, chainmail and frilly silver lace, it was more the garb one would expect from a stripper cosplaying as a soldier than a hardened master of weapons, leaving much of her body exposed. It was no different to what Viera tended to wear, regardless of comment, in or out of their jungle of origin. It was rare enough to see her kind in Golmore Jungle, concealed as they were from prying eyes; outside of it...

"And greetings to you, Aedan," she said simply, her tone not quite monotonous but not quite...normal, again typical for Viera. They spoke in flowing but dull form, exchanging the basics of communication but rarely ever the spirit. She said no more, apparently content with turning her attention to the rest of the Sandsea. Her gaze swept over it, and to Aedan she seemed akin to a Queen reigning over her Kingdom, ever watchful.

 _Promise me, Aedan._

"I see you didn't get me a drink," he complained, motioning with his right hand to the empty table in front of him. As Balthier opened his mouth, Aedan continued, causing his fellow Sky Pirate to close it. "Yeah, I know, you didn't know when I was coming." _If_ had not been the question.

They were old friends, and Aedan owed Balthier more than the Sky Pirate probably realized. His coming had never been in question.

"Glad to hear you received my message at least," Balthier said, sweeping his emerald gaze across the Sandsea. "We watched that little fracas of yours over by the entrance," he continued, briefly flicking his eyes towards Aedan, before again looking over the tavern. "Nasty business, that."

Aedan simply shrugged, unconcerned, all too aware of what he was hinting at. "They weren't a threat and you know it; just a pair of drunks. Normally I'd be all too happy to chew the fat with you, Balthier, you know that. But I've had a long day, and no offence but my patience isn't what it used to be, lately," he said, eliciting a brief glance from Fran, one that he did not return. There was a question in her gaze, but he did not answer. _Let her wonder,_ he thought. She knew more than she had any right to; she'd figure it out.

Balthier was not long in returning with a quip. "The unending burden of having a price on one's head. I believe yours has leapt ahead of mine now, actually. I wonder how that happened?" Balthier glanced at Aedan, who raised a brow and narrowed his eyes ever-so slightly by way of answer. And the sky pirate's attitude sobered, no longer such a joker. Over the years, they had come to know each other well – and they knew how to read one another's moods. Now, it seemed, was not the time for jokes.

Silently, he brought his right hand up, clutching what Aedan knew to be a letter; it was too large and too neat to be anything but. He reached out, and Aedan mirrored him, taking it with his right hand and settling back in his seat, head bowed faintly as his eyes roved over it. And before his eyes could widen, Balthier spoke, cutting off anything he might have said.

"Myself and Fran have an adventure in mind, and you're invited. Remind me; when was the last time you went to Rozarria?"

* * *

Still going slow, but things are sure to pick up soon enough. The next chapter's likely to be a bit smaller than these two, largely composed of dialogue as Aedan tries to work out exactly what Balthier's up to.

As before, leave your reviews/comments and let me know what you think! Working on the next chapter as we speak, and it shouldn't be too long before it's up.


	3. Chapter Two - Aedan

_18/3/708_

 _Balthier,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. Before you dismiss it, know this; it has been a long time since we have spoken, and I do so now only at great need. I know this will not offend you; being who I am and being who you are, I understand entirely why we have remained apart for all this time. But circumstances conspire, and I find myself forced to call upon your services. I hope you can forgive me for this._

 _Two years have passed since the Battle of Rabanastre, when at the brink of war we somehow preserved the peace. You resurfaced a year later, after we all believed you dead. In all this time you have yet to visit with myself or Ashe, and so I think myself safe in assuming you are not aware of the current political climate. Despite all our best wishes, hostilities did not fully end with my brother's death and my own ascension. I and Ashe are doing all that we can, but there are those that stand against us, both in and out of our own lands. I will not bore you with those details; I know you have no interest in such things._

 _Suffice it to say, things are not as peaceful as we might have hoped. I wish you to know only that there are many in Ivalice that still seem to desire war over peace. It is one such party that troubles us now._

 _Over the past month, assassins have struck repeatedly within the Imperial Palace. Gabranth is unable to explain how they continue to enter, despite his and Zargabaath's best efforts at preventing this. The first strikes were at clerks, civilians, soldiers; minor personnel. The more time passed, the more important their targets, culminating with Zargabaath himself only today, at the time of writing._

 _They are clad exclusively in black cloth that, at a glance, conceals their identities, armored only in light black leather. They carry no goods or equipment beyond arms, armor, and a peculiar sort of amulet. While I did not recognize it, Gabranth tells me it is traditionally worn by the Asha'shul, a secretive sect originating in the Rozarrian Empire that specializes in subterfuge, sabotage and assassination. While they owe the Margrace family no fealty, they are often hired by them and other groups for various tasks, many of them unsavory._

 _He and I have reason to believe a party – perhaps House Margrace, perhaps another House, perhaps a group not related to Rozarria at all – is attempting to goad us into all-out war with Rozarria. This, of course, is unacceptable. We cannot look into these affairs ourselves, however; we have our own troubles, and subterfuge is certainly not an Archadian specialty, as you well know. And so I call to you, that you act where we might not. There is much at stake, and in the circumstances, I would trust no other with this task._

 _I beseech you; go to Rozarria, and uncover the truth of things. I do not ask you this as Emperor; I ask as your friend._

 _One last thing, however; do not show this to the good Queen, or those associated with her, save at dire need. She has enough trouble on her plate already, and you know better than me just how she would react to this. Let us attempt to keep this under wraps._

 _~Larsa Solidor_

 _P.S. Balthier? You're smart enough to know not to show this to anybody that doesn't need to see it. I know you have a lot of contacts. If any of them can help you, you have permission to tell them what they need to know. Show this letter if you must. Keep yourself safe out there, and give Fran my best. It's been too long._

 _~ Gabranth_

* * *

Aedan stared down, aware of how his mouth drooped open and his eyes had widened. He didn't care. Had the Sky Fortress Bahamut tipped over a few meters and fallen atop the Sandsea, he might not have immediately noticed. _Where the bloody hell am I supposed to start with this?_ His mind raced.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look back at his fellow Sky Pirates, only to find the two of them looking directly at him. Fran's countenance was no less stony than it ever was, but a glint of understanding shone in her scarlet eyes, a hint that she understood what he was thinking. Balthier, in turn, seemed caught somewhere between bemused and...alert? _Yes, of course. He knows how I might react to this,_ Aedan considered.

Long-time friends they may have been, but that was no protection from his temper.

He spared another brief downwards glance towards the letter, before reaching up with his hand to place it down atop the table, settling back in his chair in a manner he forced to be casual. Had they not been in the middle of a bustling tavern, silence might have reigned in the intervening seconds before Aedan lifted his gaze to stare directly at Balthier, azure eyes meeting emerald.

"This is a joke," he announced simply, voice as clear as it ever was, but carrying a note of question and uncertainty that did not belong there. Aedan was certain, confident; confusion did not belong. Balthier never even blinked. _Shit._ "I mean come on. Really. Judge Bloody Magister Gabranth giving Fran a friendly message? Archadia and Dalmasca in bed together? A Sky Pirate on first name terms with the _Emperor of Archadia_?" His voice had started out calm, measured, but by the end it was dripping with exasperation. He looked at Balthier, looked for any sign that this was indeed a joke that was being played on him. The Archadian Sky Pirate simply looked back at him, patiently.

"This is ridiculous," Aedan continued, shaking his head with an accompanying scoff as he turned his attention to the lower floor of the Sandsea, deciding to distract himself by observing some of the locals doing what they did best. "You can't possibly expect me to take this seriously," he said, half-asking, as his eyes settled on a drunk vomiting into the lap of one of the wenches, eliciting a shriek and earning him a sound slap. _Wish I was in his shoes,_ Aedan shook his head once more.

Balthier took his tankard in his right hand and lifted it for a sip, watching Aedan over the rim. "If only," he countered, diverting his own eyes towards where his friend was looking. "I'd like nothing better than to dismiss all this as a joke and carry on my merry way, but unfortunately, I don't have the luxury. This is very serious business, you know." This earned a grunt from Aedan, who briefly glanced towards Fran, silently asking if she had anything to add. She did not speak, but nor did she turn her eyes away from him, and it was he that looked away first, now watching the drunk attempt to patch things up with the wench. _Which seems to include attempting to fondle her,_ Aedan noted, raising his brow at the sight of it.

"Yes, yes, very serious. Really, Balthier. Assassins? Political rivals? War? And of all the possible people in the world, he contacts _you_ for help? One of the most wanted criminals in Ivalice? What the bloody hell do you think I am, an idiot? He'd be more likely to have you shot."

"And you know the Emperor yourself now, do you?" Balthier asked, earning a brief glare from Aedan.

"Calm yourself," Fran interjected, catching his gaze once more before he could reply to Balthier's bait. "Stop and think. You know this is not a joking matter," she said, cool as could be, monotonous voice sweeping over him. _She, at least, is not the type to joke around,_ Aedan was forced to concede. Breathing out through his nose, he eased himself anew back into his seat, resting his right elbow on the armrest and his cheek against his fist as his eyes flitted from pirate to pirate, watching each one in measure. They didn't speak; they knew to give him a little space, to let his mind work. This was not minor news, after all.

Aedan knew little of what the two of them had been up to. Oh, he knew that they had been believed dead after the Battle of Rabanastre, and had resurfaced a year later, joining the many other Sky Pirates in the mad rush for the sky continent. But what about before? What had they been up to in the months leading up to that battle? The last Aedan had heard of the two had been when they were set to infiltrate the Royal Palace here in Rabanastre, two years ago. Vayne Solidor, Larsa's elder brother, had been selected as Imperial Consul for the kingdom during its occupation, and a fete prepared by Migelo had been arranged for that night.

That night, Balthier and Fran had struck into the palace, searching for something. And then they vanished. The night coincided with a Dalmascan Resistance strike, attempting to kill Vayne when he was vulnerable. _Silly of them, that. The entire thing was a trap; Vayne used himself as bait, and had the_ Ifrit _tear them apart from the sky._ Aedan had been in the city at the time, and he had watched as the battleship known as the _Ifrit_ soared across Rabanastre, firing down at the palace.

The Imperials had claimed it was just thieves. As though they would use a flagship for some thieves.

Aedan had believed the two of them dead, captured or disappeared during the chaos. And yet according to several crewmen and soldiers, the infamous pirates had reappeared during the Battle of Rabanastre, just long enough to infiltrate the Sky Fortress Bahamut. And then they vanished once more, and once more were they believed dead. A year later they resurfaced, and business continued as usual, with Aedan not asking even once about what had happened during those times.

He understood better than most that some stories you just kept to yourself.

And now he was reading this letter, his eyes once more roving over it on the table. Emperors. Rozarrian assassins. A free Kingdom of Dalmasca working co-operatively with the Archadian Empire. Judge Magister Gabranth. And Balthier and Fran, being contacted to help them. Suddenly, Aedan felt differently; suddenly, he wanted to know just what Balthier and Fran had been up to during those mysterious years. _Do I really know them?_ He found himself asking, looking at each one in turn.

More importantly, did it matter? Either this was a monumental joke, in which case he could walk away...or the Emperor of Archadia's life was endangered. In which case he could still walk away. He cared nothing for the lives of Archadians. _Save for this one sat in front of me,_ he reminded himself. It was a clear and obvious decision. The simple fact was that this had nothing at all to do with him.

Silently, he rose up out of his chair, drawing Balthier's gaze; the pirate looked at him, the question unspoken in his gaze. Aedan slid out of place, placing his right hand on the letter and sliding it back towards Balthier as he spoke, the fingers of his metal gauntlet scratching slightly on the surface, grating. "I appreciate the offer," Aedan said evenly, maintaining eye contact with his friend, "but I'm out." He promptly turned, and began to walk away. He did not get far.

"Aedan," Balthier spoke up, voice remaining calm and casual even so; it was a skill, surely. "We need your help."

The words were enough to cause Aedan to sigh under his breath before turning around and approaching the table again, cloaked form remaining on his feet rather than moving for the chair. He had no intention of lingering. "I escaped that life," he said, with a voice that sounded calmer than he felt. "I won't run headlong back into it - not even for you," he finished, reaching up with both hands to raise his hood over his head. He wouldn't want to be recognized, after all. Not in this city.

"Have it your way then," Balthier said with a tone reminiscent to a shrug, the motion accompanying his words all the same, his expression one of sudden abrupt disinterest. "I can hardly blame you for being indifferent to Archadia's Plight."

And as Aedan turned, hood almost up, Balthier's voice lowered somewhat, almost accusing in nature. It didn't belong. "I should think you more concerned with Dalmasca's, however. These assassins are going after an Emperor."

Those words caused Aedan to fall still. He'd come so close. _Don't go there, Balthier. Please, don't._

"What would stop them going after a Queen, I wonder?"

 _Promise me, Aedan._

* * *

 _I think I went a little too far,_ Balthier realized, as Aedan's fist slammed down on the table, silencing conversation on the surrounding tables.

Seconds passed. The table settled again, having tipped somewhat in Aedan's direction as his fist connected with it, causing Balthier's tankard to fall off the table, spilling the rest of its contents on the floor. His eyes never wavered from Aedan's own, so blue, and so full of shocked anger.

Balthier had always believed emotion to be separate from the body. It was something metaphorical, something you couldn't measure or properly describe; it was simply there. But in that moment, he knew. Emotion was something you could see, something you could feel and measure. It was rolling off of his friend in waves, and Balthier knew that had he been anybody else, he would have been little more than a smear on the wall by that point. _Yes, just a little too far,_ Balthier noted.

"I was drinking that," he complained, dulcet voice no less calm than it had been a moment beforehand. In the corner of his eye he could see Fran, see the way she had tensed somewhat, watched even as she relaxed once more. He did the same, letting his muscles settle. The instincts of a Viera were far sharper than a Hume could comprehend. If Fran sensed this was a time to relax, then it was, whatever state Aedan was in. She knew him as well as Balthier did, after all. Perhaps even a little better.

"You're lucky that's the only thing I spilled," Aedan growled, right hand still on the table where it had struck, metal gauntlet clenched in a fist. Balthier knew the anger was not directed at him; it was because Aedan knew he was right. His friend had the most ferocious of tempers, usually so well controlled and disciplined behind a wall of iron, and when it showed – in combat and out – it was easy to assume he was little more than a brute barbarian.

Balthier knew better; he knew his friend was ruthlessly intelligent, like he himself, and that he had realized the same thing already – that assassins who could kill an Emperor would kill a Queen just as easily. He had simply been looking for an excuse to hide from it. An Emperor he could care less about. But the other...

Slowly, the cloaked sky pirate lifted his fist, motions too calm and controlled in contrast to what had just happened, and Balthier knew he was bringing his emotions back under wraps. As the seconds passed, conversation on the surrounding tables began to return, hesitantly at first but with growing confidence. Balthier could see they never stopped sparing brief glances at Aedan, however, and he could see a couple of eyes widen in recognition. The same eyes swept quickly to Balthier and Fran, and wide eyes grew wider still. _Bugger._

"I think it is time for us to leave," Balthier said, rising to his feet and resisting the impulse to reach down and check that his rifle and rapier were still in the same place. He knew they would be; the former was strapped to his right leg, within easy reach, while the latter hung from his left hip, lacking a scabbard. "The choice is yours, Aedan. The Strahl is at the usual hangar. We're leaving in two hours, with you or without you," he said, and he knew that Aedan would be there. Balthier was depending on it.

For Aedan had considerably more experience in Rozarria than either of them, and his combat style was thoroughly physical and frontline, in contrast to Balthier and Fran. Together, the three of them presented a powerful and united front that was nigh impossible to penetrate, and that might be needed before this task was complete. _And I trust him,_ Balthier admitted. He trusted very few people.

As he passed, he briefly reached out to place his right hand on Aedan's shoulder, patting him before releasing him and proceeding down the stairs, Fran sliding into place beside him.

"That was ill done," she said, reprimanding him, and while her voice never shifted it held a cold note in it. _Yes, it was,_ he thought, a sliver of guilt worming its way into his consciousness. Aedan had been through enough already without Balthier poking the wound. This was manipulation, clear and simple. And it had to be done – for his own good.

"We keep too much from him. When do you intend to tell him about Ashe?" Fran continued, and Balthier spared a brief glance at his lifelong companion, shaking his head briefly.

"Never, if I have my way. Who would want _that_ conversation?" He asked rhetorically, for if Aedan discovered Balthier knew Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca even better than he knew Larsa, he would explode. _It would be thoroughly unpleasant, and I have no intention of opening that particular can of worms._

Fran simply sniffed once before forging onwards towards the exit, making her opinion on the matter clear. Balthier sighed and followed her, sparing one brief look back towards the balcony, where he could still see Aedan, standing still and staring down at the letter on the table. _Forgive me, but we do what we must,_ Balthier apologized, even as he turned to follow after Fran.

Drama was all well and good. But they had business to attend to.

* * *

Yo!

Apologies about the wait. The writing itself didn't take so long, but it took a bit longer than expected to upload it, as one bit of business piled up on top of the other, and only recently have I found the time to go through it and make sure everything was as it should be. With any luck, the next chapter won't take half as long.

So, see you next time, and hope you're enjoying things so far.


	4. Chapter Three - Aedan

_" **A name for the freefolk who ply the open skies in airships. Though they are collectively called "pirates", their actual occupations vary by individual. Some search for legendary treasures, some merely travel the world, while others are indeed ruthless villains who attack trade ships and plunder goods for profit. In recent years, the Archadian Empire has stepped up patrols, bringing in the worst of the lot, all but consigning the more flamboyant feats of piracy to history. Of late, many are pirates who have given up the thief's life for that of the headhunter, bringing their former comrades-in-arms to justice... for a bounty. Those few who remain pirates have struggled hard to retain the title, and are duly proud of it."**_

 _~Sky Pirates, Sage Knowledge_

* * *

Aedan had not looked back as his fellow sky pirates passed him by on their way to the stairs, nor had he looked from afar as they passed through the still burgeoning crowd on their way to the exit. He had no doubt they had shared words, or were about to; no doubt that Fran would be chastising Balthier for his crude manipulation, knowing full well how his friend would react. It wouldn't change anything. _I have to go,_ he thought morosely. The choice was no longer his to make.

Slowly, he unbowed his head to look at the table. Balthier's tankard had not been picked up, and remained on the floor beside his chair, having spilled its contents out across the floor with a little of it trickling off the side. He felt sorry for whichever one of the wenches had to clean it off the wall, when the time came; that would be a true exercise in acrobatic ability. The table itself was relatively undamaged, but he saw a light crack in the wood where his fist had struck, and he knew it would need replacing. He grunted under his breath. Not his problem.

He was all too aware of the eyes on him. His little display had drawn attention enough to him. Can't be helped, he thought, even as he stared at the cracked table. He knew he should get moving, should put distance between himself and this place. Tomaj ran a tight ship, and any rats that lived here would give it at least half an hour before they fled to carry word to the Dalmascan Knights – that that was half an hour that was slowly trickling away as he stood there. _Just like Balthier's ale._

Slowly, Aedan lowered himself down onto his left knee, resting his left arm atop it as he reached out with his right. The letter from 'Emperor Larsa' had fallen, too, and he clutched it in his left hand, once more reading it over with his eyes. Wishing, praying, that it would say something different this time, that there would be some sort of mistake that might free him from this madness. But no, every word was exactly the same. He knew it wasn't forged. Balthier was many things, but he was not a liar; the gentlemanly pirate prided himself on his given word. And he was a friend, one of the few Aedan had.

 _And things had been going so well, too._ He chuckled under his breath at the thought, all too aware that to the watching eyes he must look a little crazy. Rising up once more to his full height, he turned his azure gaze to the left, towards the other tables on the balcony and just as quickly felt some of those eyes recede. He could hardly hold it against them.

How often could it be said that the three most infamous Sky Pirates in all of Ivalice sat down at a table for drinks?

 _Funny. We're all pirates, yet each of us for completely different reasons,_ he mused, even as he stared down at the letter in his hand once more. Fran the Viera had lived as all Viera did, deep in Golmore Jungle, a treacherous place partway through the southern continent of Kerwon, a largely unexplored place – due in no small part to the abundance of Jagd, a strange crystalline substance that obstructed the use of skystone, which of course crippled many explorers. _Less that it's unexplored and more that it's untamed,_ Aedan corrected himself.

The Viera were a stoic and distant people. Concealed in the jungle, they kept to themselves; they were more than a rarity, and when one was encountered it was generally only because they wished it. They had a harsh view on outsiders and the 'outside world', avoiding both as though they carried the plague – yet sometimes a Viera grew tired of that life, or circumstances forced their hand, and they fled the confines of that jungle. Fran had been such a Viera, and had fallen in with the budding Sky Pirate Balthier. As far as Aedan knew, the two had been together ever since.

 _Freedom, then,_ Aedan considered. Yes, Fran was a pirate for the sake of personal freedom. So were he and Balthier, in their way, but they had other interests – for Fran, it was the be-all end-all. Then there was Balthier...

 _Idiot. Time's flying by while you stand here._ He turned his gaze to the left once more, absently lifting his right hand to tug at his cloak and ensure that his body was still covered. The hood would do him no good now; his face had been seen, and while such things were not common knowledge, enough had recognized him. That alone would be bad enough, but seen in the company of Balthier and Fran? _This could get messy. I have to move._

And move he did. His gaze passed over the other tables as he turned to the left, proceeding back towards the stairs, not quite at a brisk walk, but nor was he fully at his ease. He was safe here in the tavern, but as soon as he hit the streets, he had no way of knowing who would come around what corner. He would have to be on his guard.

Nobody obstructed him, of course; once he'd gotten down the stairs, he was amidst a crowd that paid him no heed at all, and he smoothly slid about one figure and then the next as he directed himself towards the exit. The fresh air washed over him as he stepped outside, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief; no matter how many times he wandered into such taverns, he could never quite get used to the stench of alcohol and body odour and urine mingling together in that unique way they did. _Balthier seems to thrive on it, though._

Before he knew it he was passing by the drunk who had stumbled out before, who by this point seemed to have set himself up on one of the nearby pillars, strategically positioned that he might sleep with his head angled – if he were to throw up, he wouldn't choke on it. _Clever sod,_ Aedan thought, all too aware of the irony. Apparently not a first-time drunk.

"All the best," he murmured in a light tone as he passed him by, eliciting a garbled groan of question from the creature. He just laughed under his breath and kept walking.

Only now did he allow himself to be at ease, here in the dark of night, here in the relatively empty streets of Rabanastre – even when he was anything but. After all, if the sentries and passersby saw a cloaked figure rushing forward towards the central plaza, what might they think? He knew it was best for him to proceed at a careful, casual gait. He knew he would have time enough to spare once he reached the Aerodrome; this was a journey he had made many times over, and he knew what he was about by this point.

Barely anybody was out at this time of the day, of course, and those few he passed by he ducked past, muttering empty courtesies as they did the same in turn, neither taking any heed of the other. His right hand still clutched the letter in it, and he forced himself to relax a little, to avoid crushing it; it might well come in handy later on after all, and it still needed to be legible. _Why did he leave it behind?_ He couldn't help but wonder. Perhaps Balthier had known Aedan would take it. It wouldn't have simply slipped his mind, he knew that much. _I'll have to ask._

Before he knew it he was in the central plaza and angling towards the western gate, still open at this time of night. Even as he began to descent the long stairwell away from the fountain, he could see that the massive metal gates were opened at the centre, just a crack allowing travellers to come and go – and a squad of Dalmascan Knights nearby, watching them all like hawks. _Crap,_ he thought simply. He knew there'd be guards here, but so many? They must have upped the numbers lately. _Night-time incursions, perhaps?_ Whatever the reason, he cursed whatever was responsible.

Ordinary guardsmen were fine; they would not recognize him. The Dalmascan Knights were a different matter entirely. He doubted a single one didn't know what he looked like. _Gods know they have good reason,_ he noted, with bitterness.

He cast his mind elsewhere. The hood had shielded his identity in the street, but it wouldn't do at a gate; they'd insist on it being lowered. _Then I'd have to kill them,_ he thought simply. And while they would certainly lose no sleep over ending him, he had no grudge against them; they were just valiant men trying to keep people safe. No, that approach wouldn't end well for anybody involved. _It's times like this where magick would really come in handy._

Magick. One of the most controversial things in all of Ivalice. Magick was the art of manipulating the Mist that imbued all of the world – more in some places than others. Done in certain ways, this was capable of producing effects that ranged massively in both magnitude and variety; from fireballs, to spikes of ice, to putting an enemy to sleep, to healing wounds. Some, it was said, were capable of decimating dozens of men in an instant, or restoring life to the recently dead. Aedan had no doubt these tales were true; he had seen enough of magick to know what it was capable of, and not to toy around with it.

And perhaps fortunately, he was one of those incapable of wielding it.

Almost all people were capable of wielding magicks, at least to some small degree. Some were more talented than others, of course; the Viera in particular were renowned for their massive potential and knowledge regarding the wielding of magicks, as were the Nu Mou. Individuals existed, of course, who also possessed exceptional power or potential – as did those who were utterly hopeless at it. Balthier immediately leapt to Aedan's mind. Balthier, unlike Aedan, was capable of magick as so many were, but it was not where his talents lay, and it was not something he pursued. _The one and only time I saw him cast a spell, he almost set himself on fire,_ Aedan remembered with amusement. That had not gone down well.

And at the other end of the scale was Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca, First of Her name, Queen of the Kingdom of Dalmasca. If Balthier was beyond hope with magick, then Ashelia was a scion of it. Aedan had no doubt that much of it was exaggerated – that was the way of stories, growing more unlikely with each repeat telling. _My own reputation's the same way,_ he thought with a grimace. No, it was certainly exaggerated – but there was no smoke without fire, and Queen Ashelia's talents as a Time Mage were nearly legendary. She was quite capable of defending herself.

So then why was he rushing off like some knight in shining armour?

 _Focus, Aedan, you bloody idiot,_ he chastised himself once more. _Do, don't think. You always think too much._ Each step brought him closer to the gate and the squad of Knights, and he was busy thinking about something he couldn't wield and a woman he'd never meet. And then he saw something through the gap in the gate that caused him to slow his walk – not enough to make it suspicious, but enough to drag out his approach. Hopefully just enough.

For up ahead was what appeared to be a chocobo convoy, and he knew it would be a delivery. For this, the gates would need to be opened wider. That was his chance. Remembering what he held in his right hand, he smoothed out the letter some and folded it inside of his cloak, tucking it into one of the inside pockets.

"Ho there!" Called one of the Knights, a younger fellow with cropped brown hair, clad in the same cloak and scant plating as most of his ilk. _He almost looks like I did, once upon a time._ "Open the gate!" He proceeded to call to the right-hand side with an unnecessary wave of his right hand, and soon enough the gates began to drag open with that loud grating sound that was so customary with such things. The other knights began to busy themselves as they approached the oncoming convoy, and beyond them, Aedan could see what was coming that much clearer.

Several carriages and carts were being dragged by chocobos, those large bipedal birds that were so widespread in Ivalice, much beloved by the people at large. They had yellow feathers, of course; it was common knowledge that all other colours were beyond domestication, and to attempt such was at one's own peril. None of the creatures had riders, of course; they were all on the carriages and carts, each with reins in hand and bringing the birds to a stop. The Knights promptly began their inspection, and while too far to hear exactly what was said, Aedan could hear the young lad – some corporal, no doubt – and the lead driver conversing. It didn't sound serious. _They're expected, then,_ Aedan concluded. He immediately put the soldier out of his mind.

He promptly made his move, angling a little to the left to skirt around the convoy. Only one of the Knights looked towards him, offering an amiable nod without properly looking, and Aedan did the same in turn, head turned away slightly to disguise his face. And before he knew it he was walking past the group, unchallenged; the Knights had bigger business.

 _Silks, linens..._ Aedan thought as he gave a passing carriage a once-over. Textiles. _No doubt from one of the outlying settlements,_ he concluded with a brief nod; that sounded about right. Before and during the Imperial occupation, the only major settlement in Dalmasca outside of Rabanastre had been Nalbina. Since then, however, Queen Ashelia had seen to the building of a series of buildings here and there in the deserts surrounding Rabanastre. None were large enough to constitute a town by any stretch of the imagination, but they were a beginning, with new buildings going up daily. As a desert, light garments, cloths and silks were ideal, with the latter being especially useful for selling and exporting – and so these settlements were producing it by the cartload. _It's starting to look more like a Kingdom..._

 _...and there you go with Queen Bloody Ashelia again. Damn you, Balthier._ With a light scowl, he kept walking.

After he had passed the gate proper, there was nothing stopping him from advancing farther west into the imaginatively named Westersand. Of the three desert regions surrounding Rabanastre, the Westersand was easily the most dangerous; wolf packs prowled even the outskirts, and deeper in were rumours of anything from Wyrms to Wyverns to giant mutant wolves with rabies and an appetite for fruit. _Not a pleasant place,_ Aedan nodded, briefly casting his gaze about. He had nothing but sympathy for whoever was settling it.

Immediately to his left was a chocobo ranch, of course – there was one by every gate - though most of the birds were asleep by this point; some had awoken and given their distinctive 'Kweh!' to the passing convoy, but this had gone ignored by the well-trained birds. Only one stable hand was there, a moogle as they all were – for some reason, while pleasant birds in general, chocobos seemed particularly partial to moogles.. _Poor sod's dozing off,_ Aedan noted, without an ounce of blame in his head. _Honest men sleep at night. I would be too, if I had my way._ They were available for hire, and more often than not travellers with a bit of gil would use them in order to cross the desert. The birds were more than capable of outrunning anything out there.

 _None of them going west, though,_ Aedan considered, sparing another glance for the desert over the horizon. The only thing in the Westersand were a couple of Queen Ashelia's new settlements – and the only thing past the Westersand was the Yensa Sandsea. And nobody with a whit of sense wanted to go _there_.

The Urutan-Yensa were notoriously unfond of visitors.

Only now did he flick his attention to the main attraction of the Western gate, at least as far as he was concerned – the Aerodrome, a colossal structure on his right-hand side, directly opposite to the chocobo ranch. He took a few steps towards the ranch, that he might better examine it, coming to rest his back against the wicker fence that separated the chocobos from the road; he knew he had the time for it, and after all, how often did a man really get the chance to simply sit back and stare at something? _There's always something to be rushing off to do, some pressing business that needs handling._ _Savor it,_ he told himself.

One of the few chocobos that had awoken sidled up towards him, making small inquiring noises, perhaps hoping that he had some food. With only a brief glance, he reached out with his left hand and ran it over the bird's beak before itching at the back of its ears. He was familiar enough with the jovial creatures to know where they usually liked a scratch. His attention was elsewhere, however, and even as the bird let out a low, pleased 'Kweh!' and nuzzled into his hand, he was staring towards the building in front of him.

Suffice it to say, the Aerodrome was huge, this structure in which numerous commercial airships meant for private use and public civilian travel were housed. Docking and refuelling facilities were all about on the indoors. Aedan didn't know precisely how large it was on the inside, but he knew the only building larger in all the city was the Royal Palace – and not by all that much. And you could tell how large it was just by looking at it. Two small stairwells separated only by pillars of stone, each large enough for humes to walk back and forth without jostling one another, the walls themselves towering up into the air for at least a couple dozen meters before angling off back, towards the rest of the Aerodrome.

Any other time of the day, this place would have been bustling; there were always travellers or other 'Sky Pirates' coming or going this way or that. Now, at night, the place was empty as could be; and yet he knew there would be an accountant or two inside, just in case a customer was passing. Public transport was down save for arrivals at night, but private use remained open.

He could understand why Balthier was insisting on leaving at night. They would be using the _Strahl_ to travel rather than both of their ships, that most infamous of vessel that had bested so many others. If they left now, at night, then they would reach Rozarria in the middle of the morning – with time to spare. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could get this nonsense over with. _I really have things to be doing,_ he groaned to himself.

 _You still dropped it all at a word for her,_ came that niggling little voice, the accusing voice of reason. He silenced it with barely a thought, as he had done so many times before. Better than facing the implications. It came back almost instantly. _You don't even know if she needs you! Why would she? She's a Queen, with guards and an army, and a legendary Time Mage besides. You're just a killer – a damned good one, yes, but you still only have an axe and your techniks. It's just Balthier manipulating you, and you know it. She's fine._

Aedan bowed his head, faintly, in reflection, in thought at what this voice he had grown so accustomed to told him. The memory of a memory surfaced after a moment; an old man, sick in bed with the plague that had taken so many lives, hand clutching Aedan's arm with a surprisingly insistent strength. A fierce determination in his eyes. The determination to protect his daughter.

 _Promise me, Aedan._

 _I can't take that chance,_ he thought simply, shaking away this uncalled-for memory – as though having a mental conversation with oneself were a perfectly healthy thing to do.

He stared at the Aerodrome's front a moment longer before deciding he'd wasted enough time with his self pity. With one last scratch at the chocobo, he pushed away from the fence and towards the aerodrome, making for the lefthand stairwell. In short order he was inside the Aerodrome, fresh air giving way to something a little more stale – no competition at all for the Sandsea, but still not the very definition of pleasant. _I guess they clean and freshen up in the mornings,_ he decided.

Of course as soon as he entered the establishment, one of the nearby attendants who was still on hand looked towards him and made as though to approach, a pretty little hume with blonde hair that reached her shoulders, garbed in the usual uniform. He merely lifted his left hand just enough out of his cloak and shook it, a quick gesture that he was fine and knew where he was going. She promptly turned right back to the counter and slumped on it with her elbow, and he raised a brow; apparently she'd been looking forward to the activity, a break from the boredom. _Sorry, love,_ he thought in apology as he passed her by, turning his head this way and that.

He had come here a thousand times over, but the interior was impressive enough to warrant another look anyway. Especially without all the people clogging it up.

It wasn't like the Palace, or some of the older districts in the city; the Aerodrome was impressive due to sheer size and layout design. Immediately to his left and right were a series of counters and booths, each servicing a different location. _Nalbina, Bhujerba, even Archadia. No Rozarria, though,_ he noted, checking over the panels as he passed them by, each bluntly stating where the counter was servicing.

Rozarria was not like Archadia, and yet at the same time it was the same – information was paramount, but where Archadia traded it as currency, Rozarria hoarded it and kept it to itself. Public transport was not available there, though private was tolerated. It was almost as though the Empire sought to close itself off from the rest of Ivalice. _And now that Dalmasca and Archadia are basically in bed together, they must feel a little threatened,_ Aedan considered. _Bhujerba's still neutral, but for how long?_

After all, the recently reinstated Marquis Ondore of Bhujerba was Queen Ashelia's very own Uncle Halim, a detail most people forgot. Quite literally her only remaining family. _Save for one person, at least,_ he thought ominously, eyes narrowed somewhat.

Aedan had intimate knowledge of this particular subject.

He immediately continued his lacklustre inspection in a bid to distract himself from where such thoughts must invariably lead. Once he was past the counters, his left side opened up into a wide expense, something of a waiting area with various railings both wooden and metal. At the two corners were observation windows, circular in nature; it was not uncommon to see children and families there, watching the public airships come in. He could see part of one already, the right-hand window being empty; it was a colossal, blocky thing, the only parts of it standing out being the glossair rings that gave it flight. _Not very interesting to look at – completely practical. Put this thing and the_ Strahl _side by side, and you could immediately tell the difference, and not just in size._

In between the two observation areas was a notice board, detailing departure times, ship names, sizes, and various other logistical information. _People were playing up hell for some reason about not knowing about the ships they were on,_ Aedan chuckled dryly. _I wonder how many of them read this stuff now that it's there?_ Aedan, for one, found it all very boring. Oh, Pirates like him and Balthier had to known every intimate nook and cranny of their own ships, lest disaster strike – but that didn't mean they had to find the intricacies of ship mechanics and infrastructure interesting. It was a life, not a hobby.

Directly to his right from the waiting area was a single corridor leading to what was presumably a private area, for staff and first-class travellers; he'd never had any cause to go there, and did not know what waited beyond. Immediately ahead, however, was what he was looking for – the doorway that led on one hand to the public boarding area, and on the other hand to all the various private hangars.

He didn't need to check; he knew precisely where his ship and Balthier's were. And before he went to the latter, he needed to handle something at the former. His footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, him being its only wanderer. _10, 11, 12..._ He kept counting each doorway as he passed it by, before finally coming upon his own. _17, here we go._ He proceeded through the door without trouble; there was no real security in the private area, with users expected to provide their own. And only the mightiest of fools would attempt to burgle a Sky Pirate. _Especially one like me,_ he thought, unsurprised at the sorrow that washed over him at the thought.

Aedan came to a stop upon entry, cloak falling still about him as he examined his own ship. In contrast to the huge, barren airships used for public transport, his own was considerably smaller and sleeker, meant for personal transport – and combat. It was too large to be a fighter craft, of course, and the completely wrong shape; they tended to be vertical, where freighters like his own were horizontal, all the better for speed. He approached, looking at it from underneath as he approached the boarding ramp.

The thing was a combination of dark greys, deep blues and greens. Most Bhujerban ships were aglow with colour, one of the things that distinguished them from ships of other make, such as the Archadian vessels that tended to be almost entirely blacks and greys. Smaller than the _Strahl_ , albeit not by much, this was a ship built with speed over durability in mind, and only meant to house at most three people. Passengers were not welcome, here.

It was not without its customized design, of course. A Bhujerban model, it had two small 'wings' on either side that were less ornamental than they seemed. Each one had its share of armaments on them, after all, high-powered cannons meant for combating other small-scale craft. _This is a ship meant for fighting,_ he thought with a simple nod. It was the _Strahl_ 's complete opposite. He wasn't even sure if Balthier's ship _had_ a cannon.

This ship, though, was his own. And he called it the _Garuda_.

He reached out with his left hand to affectionately pat the wall as he proceeded up the ramp; the thing had gotten him through some rather tight scrapes in the past, after all, and while far from perfect, he loved it. The interior was not complicated – it was a long corridor, with the left leading to storage and sleeping quarters, and the right leading to the cockpit and a tiny little area for medical provisioning. Just in case.

From his right, he could hear a low clatter of object striking object – metal, and a light cranking sound. He wasn't concerned. He knew who it would be.

Neither did his own passage go unnoticed, the metallic sound of his leather boots striking the floor echoing out lightly through the silent ship as he proceeded towards the cockpit. The low clatter turned into a thudding orchestra as whoever was in the cockpit heard him and began to shuffle about, no doubt preparing to face whoever had invaded the vessel. Aedan just shook his head as he approached the closed door that led to the cockpit. _He'll never learn, will he?_

The door slid open at his approach. Aedan immediately took a step back and leant his upper body back, and just in time – the space his head had previously occupied had a wrench flying through it, a chubby dark blue hand holding it. The swing had been clumsy, poorly co-ordinated, yet full of strength as he knew it would be; Aedan would have been well and truly disoriented, if not out cold.

Aedan took another step back, then another, putting some clear distance between him and the figure stepping out of the cockpit. "Come on, Peiste. Don't you recognize when it's me, yet?" He asked with a tone reminiscent to a sigh, looking at his partner.

He was a Seeq, and a large one at that, barely managing to fit through the cockpit's doorway at all. Large beady eyes stared down at him, and while his dark blue pigface was a picture of bashful apology, his gravelly voice was anything but.

"What am I supposed to recognize, exactly!? Your _footsteps_? Damn it all, Aedan, I could have brained you before I knew it was you. Say something next time!" And Aedan nodded absently, receiving the same speech he'd received a thousand times over, all too aware that next time the same thing would happen again. It was just one of the little things he did to keep himself on his toes.

He'd been hit by Seeq often enough to want to avoid it, and Peiste was stronger than most.

The piglike Seeq were a colossal and bulky race by standard, towering in width and height over the other races – and while generally physically powerful even beyond a Bangaa, they were not very intelligent. Their mouths were not made with speech in mind, causing them to have some difficulty speaking comprehensibly. As though that weren't enough, they had a particular love for gil – and the spending of it. A Seeq would often acquire gil, then spend it within minutes. As such, they were often used for manual labor, particularly construction, and almost never rose to wealthy or important status. They were easily the most depreciated of all the races of Ivalice.

Peiste, on the other hand...

"'Come on, Peiste. Don't you recognize when it's me, yet?'" Peiste grumbled to himself, in a high-pitched tone that Aedan took to be an attempt at imitating him. It sounded nothing like him at all. The Seeq turned around to waddle back into the cockpit, and Aedan followed him at a distance, looking around his bulk to see what he was working on.

The Garuda's cockpit, as with most frighters, was a small roomy chamber with two chairs – one slightly larger than the other, in order to house Peiste's bulk. A wide variety of levers, buttons and switches decorated the wide terminals in front of these chairs, both on the floor and on the roof – most Bhujerban vessels were designed with experienced and veteran pilots in mind. They were made by Moogles, after all, and Mooglecraft was widely regarded as being the very finest in airship design.

"Alright, what's wrong with the flight terminal?" Aedan asked with a tired voice, reaching up with his left hand to rub the back of his neck. This was the fifth time in as many days that Peiste had insisted on working on it – right after closing it back up again. It was the fifth time they were having this conversation as well, and Aedan counted himself suddenly fortunate that they wouldn't be taking the _Garuda_ on this excursion. _No offense,_ he thought by way of apology, patting the back of one of the nearby chairs with his right hand.

"The lever's stickin' too much," Peiste grumbled over his right shoulder. "Again."

Aedan simply shook his head a little. He'd tested that same lever several times, and it was fine by his hand. Peiste, however, was a busybody; the simple fact was that he couldn't keep his hands still, and had an almost compulsive need to be doing something. Every time they came to hangar, if there was nothing else to be doing and if he wasn't too tired, then Peiste would likely rip the ship apart and rebuild it if Aedan didn't stop him. _And it'd be even better than it was before, so why do I?_

All the same, he was perhaps the finest mechanic – moogles included - and White Mage that Aedan had ever met, and he would have nobody else as his partner.

Peiste was the quintessential opposite of every Seeq stereotype, and he made a point out of letting people know it. Most Seeq went about shirtless, wearing little more than a loincloth, and this was Peiste's current state of dress – but the white robes with red fringe that were so often worn by White Mages hung over the back of his chair. _Peiste would die before he got those dirty,_ Aedan thought with bemusement. A crooked wooden staff with the occasional white band of leather around it completed the ensemble, resting against one of the terminals.

There were no pants, of course, despite Aedan's attempts at remedying this. Even Peiste only went so far.

Not only was he a skilled and experience practitioner of white magicks, as well as an exemplary mechanic, he was intelligent and cunning – and extremely sardonic. Almost everything that came out of his mouth was a jab at somebody or something. _It's how he copes. Gods know we all have our methods,_ Aedan considered. That blonde receptionist flashed through his mind a moment, and he wondered if there was time to go back...

Peiste, in the meantime, had bent over once more to carry on his work, giving Aedan the usual unfortunate view. He turned his head away in re-examination of the cockpit. Anything, to avoid staring.

"Don' you ever get hot in that?" Peiste asked, waving over his shoulder with the wrench without looking, indicating Aedan's deep brown cloak. He knew it wasn't that he was talking about, though; Peiste knew what he wore underneath it.

"Constantly," Aedan answered with honesty. "But you get used to it," he continued with a brief shrug, turning to settle back against one of the chairs, just enough for him to see past Peiste's body and look at what he was working on. He knew the ins and outs of his airship – their airship – but he was certainly no mechanic. "You know there's a perfectly competent band of moogles Balthier hires-"

Immediately, Peiste swung around and pointed the wrench at Aedan, cutting him off. "No."

And without explanation, he turned back around. Aedan opened his mouth, and Peiste turned again, staring at him, causing Aedan to slowly slide his mouth shut.

" _No_. I am not letting those little rats on m' baby, comprende?" Aedan knew his friend couldn't stand moogles at all, and often teased him. _It's good for him to take a few shots as well as dish them out,_ Aedan reasoned with himself. Peiste turned, and continued with his work, the clanging sounds again surfacing to the forefront of the cockpit. _Funny, he doesn't smell. I guess he had a bath when I wasn't looking._

"Really, though? You 'get used to it'?" Aedan nodded his head, and Peiste scoffed. "Queen's tits – sorry, Aedan," he paused at Aedan's brief glare, before continuing - "but you're in the desert, remember? Lots of sand, scorching heat?"

"Yes, and it freezes over at night, remember?" Aedan retorted with a faintly raised brow.

"Fine fine, justified. But what about the day? I didn't see you dressing any differently," Peiste countered, with a triumphant expression, and to that Aedan had no real response. _I guess I just don't feel the heat like other people,_ he mused. _Or I put up with it._

Aedan simply watched Peiste work for a few moments, letting him enjoy the victory. He knew his next words would drive any sense of victory from his friend's demeanour, and he let him savour it before finally speaking.

"Balthier's in town."

Abruptly, Peiste threw down his wrench, and it clanged off the floor before sliding away underneath one of the chairs, causing him to swear under his breath as he crawled over to reach underneath it. As before, Aedan looked away, preferring not to watch the Seeq. "Well, bollocks. What does he want this time, then? The _Garuda_ 's not ready to fly just yet," he grumbled, with a somewhat sheepish look over towards the flight terminal. Now that Aedan could get a proper look at it, he could see that it was literally in pieces.

"She won't have to; we'll all be taking the Strahl. Fran's there, fine as ever," Aedan said, in hope of distracting the Seeq, and Peiste noticeably brightened up at the knowledge. He had always had something of a crush on the Viera. _And who can blame him?_ Hearing a tale about one Seeq sky pirate who had married a Viera roughly a year ago had only encouraged him, despite how he struck out every single time. Fran, a friend, tolerated it; in fact, if Aedan didn't know better, she enjoyed it in her way.

"Glad to hear she's all fine and dandy," Peiste noted, though his smile withered as he continued, "but that ain't the question I asked. What's Balthier want? Oh don't give me that look. I know he's your friend and all, but seems to me tha' every time we see him, he wants something." Peiste lifted his free hand in supplication, and Aedan glanced away again. _He's not going to like this, not one bit._

"Rozarria." He said simply. Peiste, predictably, was not happy with the answer.

"Rozarria? The bloody 'ell're we going back there again? I thought we were done with that nonsense. Or is this something else?"

Aedan had shaken his head briefly at Peiste's first words. "It's something else. I've got the letter here in my cloak, but I think you're going to want to hear it straight from Balthier. And just to let you know in advance, I won't blame how you react; I didn't believe it at first. I still don't," he said flatly. _No, he is_ not _going to like this_.

At Aedan's cryptic words Peiste eyed him, but when it became clear that the hume would say no more, the Seeq instead turned back to the acquisition of his wrench. He reached under once more with his thick arm, and with a brief, low cheer, he brought it back out with wrench in hand. "Fine. When're we leavin'?"

"Half an hour. Get yourself decent and we'll go," Aedan answered.

"Oh balls to that! An hour's warning? How am I supposed to work on that, I ask you?"

Aedan's lips quirked in a dry smile. "Actually, I don't think he anticipated you'd be coming. He never does seem to, does he?"

Peiste shrugged faintly at the question, sparing a look at the wrench, before turning back to the terminal; it seemed he was inclined to get right back to work. "Fine. Give me a minute to make this presentable and I'll be with you, see wha' 'e's up to this time." Aedan briefly wondered at the point – after all, he'd only have to take it apart again in order to fix it when they came back – but decided not to begrudge him the extra work.

Instead, he turned to head back out of the cockpit towards their quarters, in order to prepare himself.

Only minutes later were they in the hangar, watching the _Garuda_ 's boarding ramp lift up, sealing it off from outside access. Peiste was garbed in his white-and-red robes, carrying his staff in his right hand with the base on the floor; he tended to use the thing like a walking stick, despite not needing it whatsoever. With the robe barely reaching his knees, the Seeq cut a bit of a ridiculous figure – but he was no less dangerous for it. A belt around his waist with a series of pouches finished the ensemble.

Aedan was still garbed in his dark brown cloak, but there was a heavy bulge underneath it on his back, as though he were carrying a very large backpack. No particular shape stood out; he was carrying it with a leather strap over his chest, specifically to ensure that there was nothing to give away what it was that he carried. _They'll know when I draw it – too late_ , he thought, darkly. Without further conversation, the odd pair of sky pirates turned away and exited the hangar, closing it up behind them as they turned to pass down the corridor deeper into the Aerodrome, in search of the _Strahl_ 's hangar.

And as their footsteps echoed out into the silent walkway, Aedan turned his head ever-so faintly to the left, just enough to look over his shoulder out the corner of his eye. Not two sets of footsteps – six. After another minute of walking, he became convinced. Those footsteps were co-ordinated, and they were trying to match them to his and Peiste's, to make it seem as though they were not there. A chill ran down his spine, and he mentally began to prepare himself.

He spared a single glance towards Peiste, and saw him looking at him. The Seeq nodded once, an uncharacteristically grim look on his face. Aedan spoke for him. "We're being followed," he said, quietly, all too aware his voice might carry were he to speak up.

"Oh that's just wonderful," the Seeq moaned.

* * *

So!

Apologies for the wait, people; suffice it to say I've been a bit busy as of late, and this has impacted my writing somewhat. Lengthened this chapter somewhat to make up for it, though I'm going to be trying to make a habit out of that. Hopefully it's worth the wait, eh?

We'll finally be getting out of Rabanastre and into the swing of things next chapter, which should only take me a couple of weeks at most. My biggest problem, actually, is figuring out whose perspective it should be written from. Once I've decided on that, the actual writing itself shouldn't take me all that long.

So, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Also, care to make any bets on who's following them?


	5. Chapter Four - Balthier

" _ **Airship designed and built by YPA, a shipwright's guild of Archades. Officially named the YPA-GB47 Test Combat Fighter, production was halted after the completion of a single test model due to dissatisfaction on the part of the Imperial customer with the costly dual-movable-wing design. Scheduled for scrapping, Balthier liberated the ship at the last moment. Balthier has since modified the Strahl to his tastes with a new engine and numerous other augmentations, making it a very different ship from the one envisaged by its YPA inventors."**_

 _~The_ Strahl _, Sage Knowledge_

* * *

Balthier sighed heavily under his breath as he settled his back against a stack of metal crates, one of many that adorned the far side of Hangar 28. _Why is it always like this?_ he found himself wondering as emerald eyes danced to and fro, from one stack of pointless, almost certainly empty metal crates to the next, indistinguishable to any other.

They weren't even his, but they were in his hangar anyway.

And it was his hangar, of that he had no doubt. He had never once heard tell of a ship other than the _Strahl_ residing here since he had first docked here, so many years ago, never see another airship flying out into the sky out of it from a distance. There was no poster outside declaring it to be his property, no signed warrant dictating that nobody else was able to dock here, but it was his hangar sure enough. And everybody that needed to know knew it.

 _That doesn't seem to save me from this infernal cargo problem though, does it?_ Indeed, the most useful thing he could recall those cargo containers being used for was providing a place for him to lean against. Such as what he did now.

As though in a bid for distraction, those eyes found the _Strahl_ – their apple. He couldn't help but smile to himself as he surveyed the beauty of a ship. Technically it had been meant to be a fighter-class airship when he 'liberated' it from its Archadian creators, but on that Balthier found he had to disagree; it was much too large to be a fighter. Or even a gunship, for that matter; it made an _Atomos_ look small. It was a freighter, plain and simple.

Almost as though the makers knew it would one day end up in the hands of a sky pirate. _Awfully convenient, really._ More than once, Balthier had considered the possibility – that perhaps his father had somehow arranged things so that he and the airship crossed paths, as a sort of farewell gift. Wishful thinking, he knew, but it didn't stop him fantasising.

Aedan had once compared the ship's design to some of the local wildlife – a 'Scarab' he called it. And after showing Balthier one first-hand, he had to admit that there was some truth to it. A cockpit of purple glass jutted out faintly from the very centre of the ship, the boarding ramp farther back and to the left, just in front of where he knew the engine core would be – safely shielded by two great wings of purple, white and orange, a colour scheme shared by much of the ship. Those wings would fold out to the sides underneath two considerably smaller bronze ones, acting as stabilizer in those events where speed and defence were less valuable than stability and balance. Taking off and landing, in particular.

Two long, mandible-like pillars jutted out horizontally from where the cockpit was, originally meant to be frontal cannons designed for strafing and dogfighting. Balthier had taken those out; they weighed too much, and while the ship had been fast, he wanted it faster. _Better to avoid and escape battle than face it head on,_ he justified. It was a topic he and Aedan had butted heads on, more than once. Two thirds of the way down those mandibles and at their base, four more orange wings jutted out in opposite directions, two at each, the former pair directly above the hovering disks – two great circular multi-tiered disks, propellers installed in both, vital for taking off, landing and hovering, but of little use otherwise.

In both design and function, it was a beautiful ship, and each time he saw it Balthier found himself grateful for whatever twist of fate had seen fit to make them cross paths, to make him save the ship from its untimely scrapping. It was his baby, as all airships were to their pirate owners.

 _Well, our baby,_ he corrected himself as his eyes sought out his partner in crime, the alluringly alien Viera known only as Fran. As much a creature as a woman, she stood straight several feet away from him, not leaning against the crates as he was. Unlike his own eyes that wandered, her own – crimson things, almost blood-like in their hue – stared directly at the _Strahl._ Or more specifically, at the small horde of moogle mechanics that swarmed over it, checking this that and the other, ensuring it was ready for flight.

There were no less than five of them, but Balthier knew full well that she would not miss a single move they made. _No matter that they've served us dutifully for years,_ Balthier reflected, a mixture of amusement and grimness washing over him. No, no matter at all; Fran trusted few, and for good reason.

And besides, civilized though she was, she was still a Viera. Still a predator.

He had encountered her not long after acquiring the Strahl, he remembered. She was no novice in any way; she had already been exploring Ivalice on her own for decades, and was an experienced combatant and magicker besides, much moreso than he had been at the time. Yet circumstances conspired to bring them together, and after a series of undeniably unfortunate events, they discovered a certain companionship in one another. They had been partners ever since, hume and Viera. The most infamous pair of Sky Pirates currently roaming the skies.

 _Well, aside from one._

"He's certainly taking his time, don't you think?" He groused to his partner, the ear closest to him flicking in silent acknowledgement. Her eyes never moved away, though, even as she replied.

"Such is his wont. It is only fair. You ambushed him." Save when she was explaining things, she always spoke short, Balthier knew.

"I hardly ambushed him," Balthier objected, puffing his chest out some and bringing his hands up, left hand fussing at his right's cuffs, eyes on his work. Despite that, in his peripheral he could see Fran glance sideways at him, causing him to look away with a quiet sigh. "Oh, perhaps I ambushed him a little. The sooner he arrives, though, the sooner this will all be over. Surely he realizes that," he said, without the faintest hint of diplomacy.

Of course, he had never been too interested in bowing to other people's feelings or expectations.

"He will come," Fran assured him, turning her attention back to the moogles. The ridiculous notion occurred to Balthier that, overgrown rabbit that she was, she might have been considering eating them. He knew full well she had no interest in such things – no Viera did – but nevertheless, there it was.

"I know he'll _come_ ," he retorted, turning his gaze leftward – towards the entrance, a few dozen metres away, lit up nice and bright by the hangar's floodlights. "I merely wish he'd hurry up about it." This earned him yet another sideways glance from the Viera, and Balthier got the passing impression he was being chastised. _Perhaps I am being undeservedly childish about this,_ he allowed, and made an effort to calm himself. It had only been half an hour, after all.

"You are in a hurry," she observed impassively, again turning her attention elsewhere. "A few minutes will not make all the difference, Balthier."

 _I know that,_ he thought, and he did, but the thought made war on his feelings. His mind knew it – he was by nature a very patient man, calm and balanced, thinking before he acted - but his heart demanded that he fly to Rozarria – now – and find out what in the god's name was going on. Assassins of Rozarrian origin, threatening Larsa and Basch, trying to start a war? And likely getting Ashe involved? Yes, he was very eager to find out what was going on – and put a stop to it. He found himself somewhat impressed with himself at the realization.

It had not been that many years ago that he would have simply shrugged steered clear of such things, after all. _And then one rescue mission with Vaan and Basch later, I was out to save the world with a dead Princess in tow. Funny how things happen like that, isn't it?_

He let out a quiet breath, and prepared himself to wait. His newfound patience was quickly rewarded.

Until then the hangar had been relatively quiet, but the opening of the heavy metal entrance gates changed all of that, echoing out into the large chamber and announcing the new arrivals' appearance. _Damn,_ he thought almost immediately after at the sight of the second figure. He'd known Aedan would bring his partner, of course, and his rational mind thanked him for it – Fran's magicks were not what they had once been, and no longer was she so capable of healing as she once was. But his feelings once again interfered.

Peiste annoyed him beyond all belief, and he could never put his finger on precisely why that was.

The moogles had appeared to take their arrival in stride, closing up the various hatches they had opened and fluttering down to ground level. "What's the good word? She ready to fly?" Balthier asked, with a glance towards them.

Their leader – Nono by name, the younger brother of the infamous Montblanc, garbed in a green jumpsuit - lifted his wrench with a quiet cry of confirmation, a squeaky thing that – Balthier was sure – some would have found adorable, before they began to waddle towards the entrance, nattering to each other without a care in the world.

In turn, Balthier was treated to the sight of Peiste edging to the opposite side of Aedan, hiding behind him and visibly shivering as the moogles passed him by, fumbling with his staff to make a sign at them with his hands – as though warding them away. He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of it, a hulking great Seeq shying away from a pack of moogles.

Aedan himself seemed no different to before, and as the two men approached, Balthier took him in. At first glance, one might have confused the two of them for brothers. Aedan's hair was perhaps a few shades darker, and ruffled back rather than slick, and they were of a similar size – but that was where the similarities ended. Balthier's face was unmarred, angled in an unmistakably Archadian fashion.

Aedan's was scarred – lightly, but scarred – in several places. A thin, diagonal one over his right eye, a small horizontal one to the left of his left eye, a tiny one on his left cheek. And his face was...different. Enough so that it confused most as to his heritage, for it was not a set that was commonly seen any more.

Balthier knew better. He knew his friend was Nabradian – one of only a handful still remaining.

A sandy brown cloak covered the entirety of his form as it had before, that much had not changed, yet a rather bulky shape was on his back. Balthier knew what it would be, and it drew no attention to his eyes, but despite himself he couldn't help but look forward to the sight of his friend wielding it, in the same way one appreciated a painter or a sculptor plying their respective trades.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were coming," Balthier teased, and Aedan's eyes rolled in answer. Aedan wasn't late at all – he still had plenty of time left – but custom was custom, and had to be adhered to.

"Well, maybe we'd have been here sooner if somebody didn't insist on gutting my ship," the man muttered with a sideways glare at the bipedal pig, who came to a stop soon after. The Seeq didn't answer or even seem to notice, Balthier noted; he seemed too busy staring, starstruck at Fran. Aedan and Balthier's eyes met, and as one they shook their heads, the former reaching out with his left hand to slap Peiste's waist several times. And it took several times to get his attention.

"Wuh?" Peiste gracefully responded, shaking his head a bit as he turned it to stare at Aedan in quiet confusion. He seemed to come to himself soon after, and with a grunt that Balthier took to be him clearing his throat, he began to whistle – blow air out, really – and look around, as though he could somehow disguise his previous gawking.

Fran, unsurprisingly enough, had not batted so much as an eye. _Bless you, Fran,_ he thought.

"Let's get to it, then," Aedan said, immediately turning on his feet to move for the _Strahl'_ s boarding ramp, drawing Fran's eye as he did.

"I'm hardly one to object in this case, but why the rush?" Balthier asked, pushing away from the stack of crates to pursue him, hands unconsciously moving to his legs, ensuring that his rifle and rapier were still in place. He felt Fran at his back, his silent shadow as always – just as Peiste shadowed Aedan.

"'s because we're being followed," Peiste grumbled, beady eyes locking on to Balthier as they walked. Aedan nodded quiet confirmation.

"Well, there's no cause for concern then," Balthier said as he and Fran came to a stop not far from the boarding ramp, causing Aedan and Peiste to turn and look at them, each carrying an expression of quiet question. "You read the letter, Aedan," he continued. "This affair will be chancy at best."

"What letter?" Peiste asked, bluntly – and went ignored. Aedan nodded his agreement, waiting.

"Well, the more hands we have the better, don't you think?" Balthier continued, eyes fixed on Aedan.

"Sure – though it might have been nice to know about this before you ran off and left your letter behind," Aedan countered, eyes narrowing somewhat.

"What letter?" Peiste repeated, turning his head from one pirate to the other, interjecting – and forcing one of them to answer him.

"I'll give you it when we're en route," Aedan muttered with a sideways glance, before shooting his eyes back to Balthier. _It slipped my mind,_ he thought sourly, and he couldn't help but squirm a little; Aedan's stares were not easily shrugged off at the best of times, and especially not when they were justified.

"Back to the point; we'll be six on this little journey of ours, not four. Now that I think on it, they should be here any moment now," he crooned as he tucked his thumbs behind his belt, turning somewhat on his left heel so that he could look towards the entrance.

He did not miss the look of mutual confusion that Aedan and Peiste shot each other, though, their lips moving absently without sound. As one they looked back towards Balthier again. Aedan was the one that spoke – and, as Balthier expected, he did so without a hint of his previous irritation. The man's moods were as fickle as anything. _They have been for years, ever since..._

"We've got a problem, then – because there were at least six pairs of boots behind us, not two," He said by way of explanation, voice lacking the dry humour it had possessed up until then.

"And I'll bet my left nut there's more," Peiste interjected. "They were trying to keep their numbers hidden, matching their footsteps to each other." _Six pairs of boots...?_ Balthier thought, his concern rising. Had their confrontation at the Sandsea excited the guard? _That'll complicate things._

"Left? As opposed to your right?" Aedan asked dryly, glancing up at his partner; he had always seemed to tolerate Peiste's eccentricities, a skill that was beyond Balthier.

"Someone comes," Fran announced impassively, cutting off any response Peiste might have made, and the group moved as one, all turning to face the entrance, hands moving for their respective weapons – but only a few inches, as it quickly became apparent that the new entries were not a threat. _Ahh, there they are. Right on cue,_ Balthier thought with satisfaction.

The two newcomers were young, that much was undeniable even to one that did not know them – and both clearly of Dalmascan descent. That was where their similarities ended, however. The first was male, medium-length sandy blonde hair framing a face that was still somehow boyish in nature, lacking even a teenager's fluffy beard. Despite his youth, though, he walked with a certain confidence, and not one born of arrogance. It was a confidence well-deserved, Balthier knew. _And how he's grown this past few years,_ he thought, with some fondness. He had once thought the boy nothing more than a pest.

Now, he was somewhat more inclined to think of Vaan as an apprentice.

Vaan's ensemble was at once similar and completely different to how Balthier recalled him. That ridiculous vest of his was still in place, a number of small pouches secured on it, but underneath that he wore loose, white shirtsleeves not entirely unlike Balthier's own, though lacking the gold-black vest that was so customary – and unveiling his neck and part of his chest. He wore two metal gauntlets, each thinner than was strictly necessary yet still capable of protecting his hands – vital for any swordsman. A red sash was wound about his waist, a swordbelt in turn wrapped around it and securing it in place, and at his left hip hung a simple, leather scabbard. The blade within was anything but simple, though.

Balthier knew it was the sword Anastasia, a powerful weapon forged from the soul of Velis – lover of the Judge of Wings, and the man formerly known as 'Odin'. Balthier had seen Vaan in action with that blade, and it was something to be feared. _Yes, he has grown – in more than one way. Much more deserving of the name 'Sky Pirate'._

Black pants covered his loins and upper legs, halted at his knees thanks to two large, layered steel boots, their bottoms unlike the sabatons so favoured by soldiers of the two Empires. Vaan had always been fond of heavy boots, a fondness Balthier had tried to part him from during their travels together, but one that had never stuck. _It seems to work for him now, though._

The young Sky Pirate's partner, on the other hand, did not seem to have changed at all.

Penelo wore the same bodysuit as before, gold thread at the sides and navy blue along her torso, with tanned leather wing-shaped pauldrons at her shoulders – with similar leather boots and bracers. Her legs were as bare as Balthier remembered, though he managed to prevent himself from looking – just. A long, wooden staff strangely lacking in adornment was in her left hand, and she used the thing like a walking stick. A pretty – but still somehow girlish – face completed the ensemble, somehow earnest yet fickle, blonde hair bound into two pigtails, one on either side of her head.

It seemed almost poetic to Balthier, that the pair were so different yet so similar – to each other and to how they had originally been. _Like something out of a story._ He shook his head lightly at the thought.

However much he liked to pretend otherwise, life was certainly not a story.

"Balthier! Fran!" Vaan announced, walking forward with Penelo at his side – and the both of them waving, him boisterously and her somewhat less so. Balthier found he couldn't blame them for being eager; it had been months since they saw one another, after all.

"Glad as I am to see you, I don't suppose you could keep it down?" he responded. His own voice was not lowered, but it hardly needed to be; he was not the one screaming to the hills from across the hangar. "We're expecting guests. The unpleasant sort," he clarified.

At this Penelo let out a sigh, shaking her head as she did so. Vaan, on the other hand, seemed almost eager. Not for the fight, Balthier knew – but for the excitement. It was what he lived for – adventure, the unexpected, and whatnot. That was what being a sky pirate meant for him.

Aedan let out a little cough, stirring Balthier to action. "Before we get too ahead of ourselves; Vaan, Penelo, this is Aedan, a friend and associate. Yes, Vaan, he is also a sky pirate," Balthier said in an aside, cutting off the younger pirate before he could shoot off the question. "The overgrown hog back there is Peiste."

"I bite," Peiste said with a flash of rather blunt teeth, causing the two of them to give him a blank look – Vaan moreso than Penelo, who all but gawked at the huge man, eyes flashing over his robes of white and red, taking in the sight. _A White Mage, like you,_ Balthier thought dryly – and a Seeq besides. That was no doubt a bit of a sight for her.

"...Vaan? Oh, so this is the apprentice I've been hearing so much about?" Aedan asked after a moment's thought, drawing the pair's attention as his eyes turned upon Balthier.

"I don't have an apprentice," came the automatic response, flat and very nearly emotionless, earning a light grin from Vaan and a girlish giggle from Penelo. Balthier knew it to be a rib, but it demanded a response nevertheless. This odd running gag that people mistook Vaan for his apprentice did not bother him as much as it once had, but still...

Aedan's lips curved in something approaching a smirk, and he turned his attention to Penelo, inclining his head in something akin to a bow. "And you're Penelo, the dancer," he murmured, eyes sweeping over her as he did. "Good to finally meet you; your reputations precede you." Penelo in turn gave him what seemed to be a playful curtsy, smiling. Vaan noticed.

"Aedan, huh? Well, I'm Vaan...as I guess Balthier just said," the younger boy – man, really – started off, seeming to become aware of his awkward opener. Aedan did not respond other than to raise his right brow faintly, an act that said everything that needed saying. His eyes flicked from Vaan to Penelo, then back again, and Balthier saw in his eyes that the man understood. He promptly inclined his head towards Vaan, and Balthier knew it was a respectful acknowledgement.

He would not pursue Penelo.

Nevertheless, Balthier sensed the two likely would not get along.

Penelo, for all of it, did not seem to notice and was instead eyeing Peiste – who, in turn, did a little twirl, flaring his robe out as though he were on display, causing Balthier to roll his eyes in consternation. The Seeq was eccentric at the best of times. She proceeded to prove him wrong, however, with a sideways glance at Vaan.

"Wonderful Vaan," Penelo said lightly, stretching her arms up in the air as she did. "You sure have a gift for first impressions." It was an opener to what Balthier knew full well would be a verbal sparring match, even before Vaan spun on the spot to protest; the two had engaged in such quarrels since the dawn of time, often in the background of more important affairs. Peiste seemed to perk up, opening his mouth to give his own two cents, and Balthier groaned internally, preparing for a cascade of vitriol.

"Vaan, Peiste, spare us. We can acquaint ourselves better on board. If you're both ready we should be underway; I don't intend to be home when our guests come knocking," he said, with a lightness that he didn't feel; he was in no mood for combat. He turned, making for the boarding ramp.

"Too late," muttered Aedan, lifting his head in a faint nod towards the entrance. _Don't tell me..._ Balthier began, but the thought went unfinished as he, like the rest, turned to look across the hangar. He swore under his breath, and out the corner of his eye he saw Aedan's eyes narrow in irritation, and he heard Fran breathe in behind him. Even Peiste appeared irritated – genuinely so, rather than playfully.

Balthier knew his own eyes were likely something similar, given who had just stepped into the hangar. The four knew this bangaa better than any of them cared to.

"Outta my way, outta my way!" Ba'gamnan demanded of the small crowd of mercenaries he had brought with him, forcing his way past them, waddling out in front of the group that effectively blocked off the entrance to the hangar. He was much as Balthier remembered; green skinned save for his chest, which was white. Cruel eyes glared out from behind leather plating over his snout, straps joining it to similar plating along the front and back of his neck, acting as a sort of gorget.

A leather harness that left his front exposed criss-crossed over his chest, securing a small tasset and pair of pauldrons in place. His upper arms were exposed, but the lower had iron bracers and gauntlets in place, which he knew from experience to be nigh-impenetrable. Beneath his tasset were brown-orange, baggy pants, knees covered with iron plates. Lastly, his feet went unarmored, sharpened claws on the end of each toe.

And his prized weapon hung over his right shoulder, held in place by his right hand. A long, iron stave with a hollowed out circular saw atop, strapped to a chain. It was already turned on, Balthier knew; the sound of scraping metal filled the hangar chamber, and he knew it would only be worse at close range.

He was a huge specimen for a Bangaa, towering over most of his mercenaries. _...three...four...five humes, and two Seeq._ And he knew there would be more on the way; he trusted Aedan's word, and if he said there were more, then...

They were not poorly equipped, either. Plate armor was the choice of the day, apparently, covering most of the humes from head to toe, and the Seeq were not left wanting either – though their bulk meant they had more leather than metal. He could see three archers, the others equipped with a variety of melee implements – swords, mostly. All in all, a brave display.

"Balthier!" Ba'gamnan rasped out, drawing the attention of those present as the bangaa pointed accusingly at the Archadian with his left hand, claw outstretched. "You've led me on a wild goose chase for too long! I get my bounty, now!" He demanded, accompanying the last word with a theatrical wave of his left hand downwards, indicating the ground.

"Not him again?" Vaan moaned under his breath, and Balthier realized he and Penelo were separate from the group. Ba'gamnan did, too.

In fact, it was then that Ba'gamnan seemed to realize that there were people other than Balthier in the hangar in the first place, fixated on Balthier as he was.

"Uhh...chief? Y'said there'd only be two of 'em," groused one of the men, an armored hume carrying a poleaxe. He pointed with it towards Vaan and Penelo – and then towards Aedan and Peiste in turn. Aedan rose to his full height, staring back at the man – who proceeded to swear under his breath, taking a step back at the sight of him. "...demons above and below, that's...!"

"And the little pups again! I'll carve my bounty out of you this time, boy!" Ba'gamnan shouted at Vaan – who, credit to him, did not seem at all concerned. Neither did Penelo, who stretched idly, hefting her staff in preparation for what was to come. _And why would they? This won't be the first time they've gotten the better of Ba'gamnan,_ Balthier reasoned.

"Fran," he said, quietly, and he knew the Viera's ears twitched in his direction. "Get her started up; best we vacate the premises, I think." He didn't look back, but he heard her soft footsteps pad towards the boarding ramp. He saw Aedan glance to the left, giving Peiste a silent nod. Peiste's considerably heavy footsteps followed Fran soon after, combined with what appeared to be irritable muttering – no doubt at being told to get on the ship.

"Enough talk. Get-" Ba'gamnan began – and did not finish.

"Tha's the bleeding Butcher!" Screamed the mercenary who had spoken before, poleaxe held in his left hand while his right pointed at Aedan. Balthier had the grim satisfaction of seeing that hand shake, combined with the alarmed whispers of the others as they realized who else was in the hangar. He spun and turned on Ba'gamnan, backing away, shaking his head in denial. "On top of Balthier!? You ain't payin' us enough for this, bounty hunter. I'm out!"

His words were echoed – quietly, at first, and then with increasing vigor – as Ba'gamnan stared at Aedan, for one speechless. The man himself glared back at the bangaa, his right hand having crept around to his back in the meantime. Even Vaan and Penelo cast sideward glances at him, with Penelo mouthing a quiet "Butcher?" to Vaan, who shrugged in response.

They didn't know who he was. _Hopefully they don't learn at an unfortunate time,_ Balthier thought. _I'm not looking forward to that conversation._

Ba'gamnan came back to himself, and with a growl he slammed his weapon into the ground, the sound of metal grinding into sand screeching into the air, causing several of the mercenaries – and Balthier himself – to grimace. "You," he snarled at Aedan, whose lips peeled back in a grin that seemed both mocking and taunting, as though daring him to fight.

The last time the two had met, Aedan had rather soundly humiliated the Bangaa. Balthier doubted he had forgotten.

 _Go on. Turn around and stuff your snout back in the trough where it belongs,_ Balthier thought, fiercely, eyes flicking from man to man, from bangaa to seeq, then towards Aedan. _You can't win this and you know it. I don't have time for this. Turn around!_

As though his thoughts were a trigger, Ba'gamnan lifted his head and his weapon, bringing the latter into both hands and stancing himself in preparation. Balthier cursed inwardly. _Well, damn you too,_ he said, cursing whatever gods were out there.

"Ten times the price on whoever brings down Balthier and the Butcher!" Ba'gamnan announced. And for all their apparent fear and surprise, that seemed to stop the mercenaries. Balthier thought he could almost see the greed sweep over them, as with laughs and muttered encouragement they formed themselves up behind Ba'gamnan, lifting their weapons and drawing their bows. _Arrows._

Aedan beat him to it. "Scatter!" shouted the so-called Butcher, and the air exploded into motion as both sides rushed in different directions. The battle had begun.

Vaan grabbed Penelo by her wrist, dragging her to the left, eliciting an indignant squawk out of her as he dove behind a pile of the crates, an arrow passing through the space they had just inhabited as the two collapsed in a pile, disabled but out of immediate danger – and out of reach, Balthier realized with a curse.

In a single clean motion he brought his right hand up as his legs took him to the left, knees bending before him as he slid across the sand those last few yards behind another pile of crates, resting his now-drawn rifle atop one of them and firing after taking aim. For only a brief moment smoke filled his sight, powder igniting, and he had the satisfaction of seeing one of the hume mercenaries fall, two of his comrades briefly attempting to keep him on his feet before the plate dragged him down. Arrows clanged against the metal crates and bounced off, leaving Balthier safely unharmed. _So that's why I keep these crates around,_ he thought, dryly. One less mystery for the day.

Aedan, true to form, did not do as the rest did; he made no move for cover. Those of the enemy that were not archers were charging forward – and he ran to meet them, right arm bent around to his back. They ran without cohesion or formation, one a time, rushing forward to attack. _Poor fools,_ Balthier thought. They saw only one man, seemingly without even a weapon.

They were about to learn just how Aedan had acquired that unfortunate name.

Balthier watched, even as he reloaded his firearm. Scarcely a few seconds had passed since battle began, and already Aedan was about to reach his first foe, scarcely a few metres from the boarding ramp.

"Die, y'son o' a who-" cried the mercenary, a cry that quickly turned into a surprised, muffled yelp of alarm as Aedan tore off his cloak and hurled it into the man's face with his left hand, fouling his overhead swing and causing him to stumble forward.

For the first time in a long time, Balthier _saw_ Aedan, and for not the first time did he marvel at his strange choice of clothing.

What immediately struck him was the fur collar, lined around the side and back of his shoulders, white – he knew it to be from a wolf that Aedan had slain himself, a long time ago. Near-black gray straps secured a thin, steel breastplate across his upper torso, the same straps holding a backplate in place on his upper back. A heavy metal pauldron covered much of his right shoulder, a thinner and lighter one his left, the left being more bronze than steel – and both lined with fur over his upper arms, almost covering the blood red cloth beneath. A gorget completed the ensemble, covering most of his neck and collar, covering the black tunic that lay beneath.

Below the breastplate were bronze-colored scales not dissimilar to those on his left shoulder, leading to a medium-sized steel tasset that covered his left and right hips, bound in place by yet more leather straps. A cloth sash hung from below the tasset, dark grey tipped with blood red. Black pantaloons could be seen beneath that sash, steel plates covering his upper legs, with thick brown leather boots covering his feet. He knew they were lined with yet more steel; it wouldn't do to leave his feet unprotected in battle, after all. To that end, the right of his right foot and the left of his left foot had spiked metal plates in place, secured by straps of leather.

Similar plates hung in place as makeshift bracers on his left and right arms, the left far heavier and more cumbersome than the right – indeed, it seemed to Balthier to be more akin to an oversized buckler than any sort of bracer. Brown leather gloves covered his hands, completing the ensemble.

Yet as exotic and question-provoking as Aedan's equipment was, it didn't hold a candle to his choice of weapon – the one example of it Balthier had ever seen in his life.

Axes were nothing new to Ivalice, of course. Basch had been fond of using them – but they were small things, single-handed, designed to be used alongside a shield. Axes had metal heads and wood shafts, after all, and they could not be used to block attacks as a sword could. The shield was vital.

Aedan, apparently, did not think very highly of that school of thought – as he wielded his axe with two hands.

It was a colossal thing, easily half the man's not inconsiderable size, and forged – insanely enough – entirely out of metal. The grip was long and thick, a line of gold detail running up it towards the axe blade itself. The counterweight was villainous in appearance, a thick spike with two smaller ones leading off it and curving around. Balthier had seen that be used as a weapon – this axe could thrust, rather than merely cut.

If the haft of the axe was thick, then the axe blade was gargantuan, curving around and away from the haft, leaving a small gap between it and the blade. It seemed more akin to the thick knives used by butchers when carving meat than any implement of war, and one would be forgiven for thinking that to be the source of his moniker of 'Butcher'. A small blade jutted out from the tip of the haft in the opposite direction to the blade, a hook of sorts that Balthier knew could be used to yank people and weapons off balance – or in the case of cavalry, directly off their mounts. Gold detail fleshed out the dull grey texture of the blade, simple but elegant in its design. It was a weapon made for slaughter, but it looked beautiful doing it.

Completing the weapon were two more spikes in the axe blade itself, a thicker one with a smaller one behind it, allowing him to thrust with the blade as well as the counterweight. It was a savage but beautiful weapon, intricately designed – and heavy, Balthier knew, having once attempted to pick it up, and with little success. How Aedan could even carry the thing was beyond him, much less wield it effectively as a weapon.

But wield it he did, his right hand bringing the weapon around and off his back, left lowering from the thrown cloak as he swept past the flailing mercenary and brought the blade back around, turning to the left as he did – and burying the thick blade directly into the back of the man's legs. Surprised yelling turned to pained screaming as he fell to his knees, collapsing on his front, weapons clattering to the ground. And just like that, Balthier knew the man was out of the battle.

Aedan's axe was a one of a kind, the like of which Balthier had never seen anywhere else. Its name was Bravura.

The second mercenary reached him as his back was turned, but Balthier did not aim at him, having reloaded his rifle in the precious seconds Aedan had bought him. Rather he aimed past him at the third, a man with a wooden shield and a small gladius – a practical sword. This one approached Aedan with care, moving to flank him while he dealt with his comrade. He knew what he was doing – which meant he needed to be eliminated.

One gunshot later, and there was a gaping hole in both his shield and his mail, the man collapsing helplessly on the ground, desperately groping at his wound with his now empty hands. _As though that'll save him,_ Balthier thought, with some small sympathy.

A brief glance told him that Aedan had disposed of his second opponent, bringing the blade around from the first man's legs and slamming the axe head into the second, intercepting his blow and knocking him off his feet. Alive – but out of the battle, at least for now. _He'll have a concussion at least._

Four down. F _or all the good it does us,_ Balthier thought, as he looked ahead, past the charging group – to see yet more rushing in through the entrance. He didn't look long enough to see who they were; it didn't matter. He could hear the all-too familiar sound of the _Strahl_ starting up.

"We have to move!" Balthier called. But if there was a response, he didn't hear it.

"Balthier!" shouted Ba'gamnan, and for not the first time that day Balthier found himself cursing whatever gods were out there. _You're boring me now, Ba'gamnan,_ he moaned to himself as he turned his rifle upon the charging Bangaa, his weapon upheld as he rushed towards Balthier's position. Aedan saw – but he was occupied. One of the Seeq and a remaining hume were rushing him, and he parried their blows as they came, sidestepping to and fro to keep his momentum, even as their comrade began to pick himself from the ground, winded after the blow he had taken.

Aedan was holding his own, and defending the boarding ramp – but he couldn't help Balthier.

Balthier knew the rifle had no shot in it, and he abandoned it, freeing his right hand to grope for his rapier.

"I don't think so!" came Vaan's voice, and the man himself came into view soon after, Anastasia drawn and in his right hand. And despite everything, Balthier found himself put at ease – for Anastasia was a truly powerful weapon, and it was in the hands of a truly skilled swordsman. It boosted its bearer's speed to truly phenomenal amounts, and Vaan was already fast on his own. Now, with that blade in hand...

Blindingly fast, he intercepted Ba'gamnan, shoulder barging him off target and drawing his attention, causing the Bangaa to sweep his weapon around horizontally with a shriek of anger.

Vaan ducked the blow with almost contemptuous ease, though he had too much grace to snort in derision as Balthier might have.

Ba'gamnan followed up, bringing his writhing weapon around in a diagonal swing, and Vaan stepped to the side, Anastasia sweeping in the same direction to parry downwards towards the ground. With a grunt of pain Ba'gamnan struck the ground, the shock of it running up his arm – followed in short order by the sharp pain of a blade slicing into his arm. He swung with a backhand, but Vaan danced out of reach, cocky smile painted on his face.

A scream behind him followed a bright flash of light, as Penelo held her staff skyward, a flash of energy bursting out and slamming into the mercenary's reinforcements, knocking most of them flying. _Telekinesis,_ Balthier thought idly, unaware she knew it – and his thoughts scattered as he brought his rifle up, reloading it even as he ran for the boarding ramp.

They were holding their own – but more foes flooded in all the time, and they would soon be direly outnumbered. All the skill in the world would not save them if that happened.

"Aedan, let's move!" he called – and before he knew it Aedan was before him, Bravura slamming into the breastplate of a mercenary from an overhead. He dug the blade out of the man's chest, and the poor man fell like a bag of bricks, collapsing without a word of protest on the ground. Dead.

Aedan never looked down at his foe; instead, he turned, and Balthier followed his gaze. Three humes and the remaining Seeq were coming for the boarding ramp – between them and Vaan, and Penelo. Vaan continued to dance out of reach of Ba'gamnan's blows, slowing him with small cuts, but other foes were starting to gather, firing arrows at him. Penelo deflected them with a glowing barrier, shielding the two of them from harm – but that didn't stop the mercenaries from advancing.

"Damn," Balthier swore. Aedan took a step forward, and immediately Balthier grabbed him by the left arm. He knew full well that left to his own devices, Aedan would charge into the fray in a bid to help them. _Because they're my friends,_ Balthier thought. Ironic as it seemed, the Butcher was a most loyal soul. Balthier knew that well.

Aedan stopped without argument, and Balthier found himself warmed by it – and guilty. Here he was, manipulating his friend into following him to Rozarria, yet he accepted Balthier had a plan without complaint. Trusted him. _I wish I deserved it,_ he thought, before turning his attention back to the others.

"Vaan, get out of here! Withdraw to the central plaza!" Balthier shouted. What mattered now was their survival. His eyes made contact with Vaan's, green meeting grey, and the younger pirate nodded. Balthier didn't hesitate. Firing off one last shot into the growing mass of sellswords, he turned to run up the boarding ramp.

As Aedan made it through the doorway, Balthier slid to a stop and slammed his fist into the control panel, and watched with his friend through it as the landing ramp lifted up to the cacophony of shouting mercenaries, dismayed that their quarry had escaped. One attempted to make it to the ramp, but slipped and fell, weighed down by his armour.

"Dumb prick," Aedan muttered with a quiet chuckle as the door slid shut, and Balthier glanced at him askance. The man seemed almost vibrant. _Battle always seems to bring him to life,_ he thought grimly, and memory flashed in his mind. He shook his head free of it. _Not now._

Together they ran down the corridor for the cockpit, Balthier slipping his rifle into the straps that secured it on his left. And while he was in a hurry, in the space of seconds his eyes took in the Strahl's cockpit – perhaps the single-most familiar place on Ivalice to him.

It was large, at least as far as a Freighter-class airship went, easily several metres long and wide – more than enough to fit six people, for whom six seats were in place. Up front and to the left was his own, the pilot's seat, with the co-pilot's to the right beside it. Behind each and in their respective direction was a passenger seat, and behind that was another.

All of the controls, naturally, were in front of the pilot's seat – six small levers inserted into a bow that had green, glowing lines leading from it on a monitor. Three horizontal levers hung beneath it. He knew what each and every single one of them was for. Encompassing the entire display were two handlebars, the primary control mechanism when in flight.

On Fran's side were little more than gauges and a number of other, small levers and switches – but they were no less crucial than his own, as these regulated the engine and kept the ship balanced. The _Strahl_ did not allow for a co-pilot; it _required_ one.

Fran sat in the co-pilot's chair, having looked over her shoulder only long enough to make sure the two were on board before moving for the controls. She, like Aedan, trusted that Balthier was not leaving Vaan and Penelo behind to die.

"Where're the half-pints?" Peiste asked, almost demanded, seated in one of the two passenger seats – though seated was a rather strong word, as much of his bulk was overflowing, much too large for the small seat.

"Moving for the plaza," Aedan answered him, slumping back in the second passenger seat, letting Bravura drop on its head on the floor beside him, leaning it against his leg, stabilizing it with his right arm. The man's eye seemed to follow a trickle of blood as it ran down the blade, threatening to spill onto the floor – one among many. The axe was practically covered with the stuff. "Too many mercenaries between us."

"And I dare not attempt to extract them with that Bangaa hot on our heels," Balthier growled, having since taken the pilot's seat, hands moving in the familiar motions that he knew all too well. He played the _Strahl_ like an instrument, and the airship began to hover in response, eager to do her master's bidding. Light shone down as the roof opened up, allowing the airship free passage and out to the sky.

Peiste gawked out the cockpit as though it were his very first flight in a ship; he had always had something of a love affair with airships, a large part of why he was one of the finest mechanics in this particular line of work. A quick glance told him that in contrast, Aedan was scarcely batting an eye. He had acquired a handkerchief at some point, and Bravura was in his lap, secured by his left hand while his right began to clean it with his newly found tool, his eyes downcast.

 _Of course. Being a Sky Pirate had not been his first choice, had it?_ And while he was capable enough, he would never love it as Balthier did.

"...oof, those poor sods..." Peiste muttered, and Balthier followed his gaze to see Penelo's spell – Telekinesis, again - scatter a crowd of mercenaries, clearing the way to the entrance. She and Vaan made it through, sprinting into the corridor and out of sight, mercenaries forming up to chase after them. _They'll be fine,_ Balthier thought, willing it to be true. He had few enough friends now that he wasn't interested in losing any more.

"We'll hover here long enough to make contact – then be on our way," Balthier announced after a moment's thought, causing Peiste and Aedan to look at him in quiet surprise. Aedan caught on first, settling back in his seat with something akin to a sigh. Fran, silent as ever, delicately operated some of the switches, watching a display of gauges on the side.

"Huh? Why? Can't we just go pick them up in the desert or something? That boy Vaan moved pretty bloody fast. Would be nice to have him with us," Peiste frowned.

"Can't," Aedan said, before Balthier could, causing the seeq to look at his partner. The Nabradian looked tired – drained, Balthier thought. _As he should, swinging a great big thing like that around._ "He's going to send them to the Palace to stay with the Queen for a bit," he said, and his voice had gone somewhat...formal. Balthier knew he was controlling himself. For his part, he nodded in simple confirmation at Peiste's questioning glance.

The topic of Queen Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca was always a heavy one for Aedan. _And not,_ he thought, _for the reason one would expect._

Peiste merely stared at him a moment, dumbstruck. "...why?" He asked, somewhat lamely. Without a word, Aedan reached into his tunic and produced Balthier's letter, handing it over to the Seeq. Brightening up, Peiste snatched it and began to read over it hungrily, and Balthier could see his eyes gradually widen to the point that he expected them to burst.

Minutes went by, and Balthier knew Peiste was reading it over several times as they waited. More than once, Peiste looked up at Balthier and Fran, staring at them in much the same way that Aedan had only a short time before – as though they were strangers. _As though he's wondering just how much we got up to this past few years,_ Balthier thought.

As the silence in the cockpit stretched long enough to become outward, the dial went. Balthier wasted no time grabbing it, bringing the mic up and speaking into it, his left hand securing the comms on his shoulders. "Balthier, you there?" came the crackling voice. Vaan.

"I read you," Balthier responded, well aware that everybody in the cockpit was paying attention.

"We made it to the plaza – lost them at westgate. Bunch of Dalmascan Knights there, don't know why." At that, Aedan grunted in what Balthier took to be amusement. "They'll find us again, though; I saw a few looking around one of the fountains." Despite it, he didn't sound very worried.

"We'll have to play the hand we're dealt. I want you to head to the Palace for now," he said, and was treated to the sound of Penelo's excited squeak on the other side. "We won't be able to come back for you; at least there you may be of some use," he clarified once the two of them had settled down. At his words, Peiste merely stared at him, blinking several times in rapid succession. And he was uncomfortably aware of Aedan's eyes boring a hole into the back of his skull.

He received Vaan's confirmation and placed the mic down, just as Peiste spoke. "...because if they'd go for an Emperor, they'd go for a Queen, right?" he asked, quietly, drawing Aedan's glare upon him and earning Balthier's quiet nod of confirmation. Vaan and Penelo would serve as insurance and added security for Ashe.

And let Aedan believe that was purely business, and not because they were all friends. It was better that way. _Who knows what he'd do if he found out we know each other?_

"This is...I mean, I just...I can't..." Peiste started, his mouth working a bit, before he slumped back in his seat, staring dumbly at Balthier. His beady eyes switched to Fran, then back, a pattern that repeated several times before he wordlessly held the letter out to Aedan – who took it and secured it away, just as silently, his hand returning to his cleaning.

"Welcome to the party. Try the soup," Aedan muttered. Both of them stared critically at Balthier, who looked to Fran for aid – who in turn proceeded to stare blankly back at the three of them, as though silently asking why they were involving her in their quarrel.

"I mean, sure. I know the Emperor too. We go drinking on fridays, whoring on saturdays, and play chess on sundays. Sometimes we mix it up a little, you know? Wouldn't want it to get stale or nothing," Peiste ranted, waving his arms enthusiastically as he did. "Pretty sure he and I got a little heated once, that would've been fun to remember. If it ever happened."

Balthier prepared himself to shoot back. Yes, he knew it all sounded ridiculous, and yes he knew he was dropping it on the two of them – but had he not earned the benefit of the doubt by now?

"Peiste...I know it sounds ridiculous to say, but let's just drop this for now," Aedan said, with a glance at his partner. Silently, Balthier thanked him, and watched the two stare at one another, and he liked to think they were somehow communicating with one another. He understood; sometimes, a stare could convey more than a thousand words. Aedan was _willing_ his partner to let it go for now, to come back to the matter later at a more prudent time. O _nce he's sorted it all out in his head,_ Balthier realized.

After a few moments, Peiste lifted his hands and waved them away, apparently giving up for the time being. Balthier let out a quiet sigh of relief; this was not a conversation he wanted to have, now if not ever. There were a lot of subjects coming up as of late that he felt no desire to broach.

But despite that, he was convinced the two of them would be discussing this at length sooner or later. He and Fran would do the same in their shoes, after all. It was testament to their friendship that they had accepted this as easily as they had, never mind made even more of a fuss about it.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Slumping back, Aedan let his head rest on its right side, staring out the cockpit window towards the largest building in all of Rabanastre, rapidly dwindling into nothing as they flew farther and farther from the city, the low hum of the _Strahl_ 's engines filling the silence.

Balthier knew what Aedan was looking for. _Gods, I hope I don't regret this._

* * *

 **So!**

I appreciate it's been quite a wait - almost an entire year now, apparently. Suffice it to say that there was too much on my plate, one thing led to another, and before I knew it I'd completely forgotten about this entire thing. My interest and time have returned, however, hence why chapter 4's out - and hopefully many more afterwards!

Before I round this off, I've been poked about something in this chapter that I feel the need to explain - namely, the depiction of Balthier in Forever's End.

Balthier is a cunning, intelligent and ultimately kind-hearted man, compassionate as demonstrated by his actions - for all his insistence on being a pirate and taking payment, the 'payment' he insists on is rarely anything notable so long as what he's doing feels like the 'right' thing to do. You can see as much of him in the original game, never mind Revenant Wings.

However, for all the stories I've read that involve him, there's one character trait that often goes missed or outright ignored - and that is his secrecy.

Balthier is a big holder of secrets in the original game, knowing far more and being more relevant to what's going on than anybody realizes until he explains himself to Ashe - and to Ashe alone, though I imagine the entire party found out before the end. And this he only did once they were going to Archades, and in a bid to turn Ashe's drive away from the search for power, which consumed his father - or so he believed.

Balthier is a free spirit. He is not a particularly manipulative or malevolent man; he does not keep secrets to control or manipulate people, but merely to make things simpler. He wants to fly in, do what needs doing, and fly out without any further complications, minding his own business and letting others mind theirs. However, from the outside this can make him seem like a heartless manipulator or liar when the truth comes out, when in reality he is anything but.

Again, I just felt I needed to justify that, since I guarantee there'll be a lot of Balthier fans going 'but Balthier isn't this big of a jerk!' if I don't.

On an unrelated note, I also intend to put profiles and/or dossiers - non spoiler, of course - of my more notable OCs such as Aedan himself on my profile. I don't intend to describe them or refer to past deeds every two sentences, so it may help when it comes to remembering certain things about them.

And with that out of the way, that's chapter 4. We'll be finally taking a look at Ashe in the next chapter - assuming, of course, that it doesn't take me a whole other year to kick it out the door.


	6. Chapter Five - Ashelia

_19/3/708_

 _To H.R.M. Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca,_

 _Greetings and salutations, Your Majesty._

 _As the director of of the Empire of Rozarria's diplomatics corps, the Directorate for Peace, it is my solemn duty to inform you of His Excellency the Emperor's acceptance of your treatise, and of my own due attendance at Dalmasca's upcoming feast to celebrate the event. On 27/3/708, is it not?_

 _As your documents state, we will be attending the feast with no less than the fifteen notables and subsequent honour guard allotted to us. I expect we will arrive on 26/3/708, one day prior, that we might better acquaint ourselves with Your person and the Palace itself; I trust you understand, Your Majesty._

 _Your eternal servant,_

 _~Director Lannas von Gunther_

 _Directorate for Peace_

* * *

Her Royal Majesty Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca, First of Her Name, Warden of the Bahamut, Master of the Galtean Alliance, and legendary Time Mage, gazed out from the balcony and surveyed her kingdom of sand.

The night wind cut at her, but she barely seemed to notice, even garbed as thinly as she was. It was nothing compared to the cold winds of Bur-Omisace.

 _It all seems so empty from up here,_ she reflected, her grey eyes slowly sweeping over the desert. She could see only one half of the Kingdom of Dalmasca from here – but it was enough, enough for her purposes at the very least. For not the first time, she realized – belatedly – that she was facing north. _I always seem to face north whenever I have to think._

She thought she knew why.

She cast her gaze eastward, towards the Estersand – and Archadia, in the far distance. Even from the top floor of the Royal Palace of Rabanastre, she could not see Archadia, but she knew it was out there. The thought of it did not induce the fear it once had. _Those hatreds are a thing of the past,_ she reminded herself. It was a different Empire, now, ruled over and influenced by different people. People she trusted.

Ashelia could, however, see Nalbina Fortress. It was still essentially an outpost, but larger now; during the occupation, Archadia had fortified it considerably as a bulwark against the potential for Rozarrian invasion. Not quite a town, but not merely a castle anymore. It was there that the majority of the Royal Fleet was stationed; the simple fact was that Rabanastre did not have the aerodrome facilities required to handle a full fleet, the same reason why Archadia had reinforced Nalbina to begin with.

More importantly to her, it was where Rasler and her father, King Raminas, had died. That was one pain that remained.

Her eyes darted onwards, eager to find new distraction, and she found it closer to home than she might have liked – in the form of the Sky Fortress, Bahamut. Where it all came to an end. It was there that, at long last, she came face to face with the mastermind behind...everything. Behind Rasler's death. Behind her father's death. Behind Cidolfus Bunansa's apparent madness – and death at the hands of his own son, Balthier. Behind Nabradia's destruction, and Dalmasca's occupation, and so many more deaths besides.

Not Vayne Solidor – not really, though he had been willing enough in the end. He and Cid had been in concert the entire time, working together – but they had not been alone. With Cid fallen, it was on the Bahamut that she brought Vayne's ambitions to a fatal end. And more importantly, destroyed the eternal 'god' that lurked behind these men, pulling the strings the entire time.

Venat. The heretic.

'Putting the reins of history back in the hands of man' had been the platitude Venat and his – her? Ashelia did not know, and found she did not care – spat her every time they encountered one another. She understood. The Occuria, that ancient race of creatures Venat belonged to, had long masqueraded as the 'gods' of Ivalice, manipulating mankind from the shadows and directing the course of history. Venat, supposedly, sought to 'free' mankind from that, and Cid and Vayne had been its willing compatriots.

Ashelia could not believe that. No, the creature had an ulterior purpose, of that she was certain. And even if Venat had been pure in its intentions, she could never forgive it – or any of them – for all the pain and death and destruction that had come about because of their actions. It was why Nabradia had been destroyed, and why Dalmasca had been invaded at all.

Oh, there were a thousand good conventional reasons for it to happen – but the only important ones were that Cidolfus needed Nethicite to experiment on, Vayne had authority over where the military directed its attention, and Nabradia and Dalmasca had two great big chunks of Nethicite, ripe for the taking.

And as a test of Nethicite's destructive capability, the Capital of Nabradia – Nabudis – was blown away. As a country, Nabradia died overnight, along with the vast majority of its population. It lost its only remaining royalty barely weeks later. The ruins of it all lay far to the north, beyond the Salikawood – beyond the Bahamut.

 _Always fixed on the big picture,_ she thought, grimly. _It's so easy to ignore all the little pictures that way, isn't it?_ She had been like that, once. Fixed on making Archadia pay for everything.

 _But Archadia was not the enemy. It never had been, had it?_

Her gaze moved downwards. The Bahamut had been a true terror in life, and it was still intimidating in death. A tower of steel jutting out of an otherwise featureless desert, north-east of Rabanastre, half a mile away from the city limits. One of her first acts as Queen of Dalmasca had been to convert the ruin into a park – one that lived on to this day. A small lake surrounded the base of the Bahamut, with greenery and foliage growing over it, and a memorial plague in recognition of those that had fallen – in that brief battle, and the war two years before.

And of the Sky Pirates she had believed lost to her forever. _So much for that,_ she thought, with an uncharacteristic chuckle. Balthier had always brought such things out in her.

Only, they were still lost to her, in their way. Ever since the debacle one year prior with the floating continent, she had not seen either one of them – not even once. _They are avoiding me,_ she knew – and she could not blame them. Balthier had ever been one to run from responsibility where possible. He was a free spirit; he was not meant to be bound in place, to live in a palace, to live with a Queen. He had made his escape from that sort of life, and he meant to stay out of it.

He was not alone in that. Vaan and Penelo had scarcely met with her, either, likewise lost to the world of the Sky Pirate. And she had lost Basch to Emperor Larsa – who, in fairness, needed him more than she did. She was not a little girl, a princess in need of a man in armour to protect her anymore.

She had long since accustomed herself to the pain of that. She had thought she loved Balthier, once – but time had done away with that deception. _He could still say 'hi' though, couldn't he? Surely he could spare a few hours for that?_

Even as the thought crossed her mind, her eyes continued their westward pass – and as if by chance, crossed over the all-too familiar sight of the _Strahl,_ flying free of the Aerodrome. _And there he is, right as I'm thinking of him._ It had not been the first time; while he and Fran never came to visit her, Rabanastre was a popular watering hole for the twosome.

 _But...west?_ Ashelia tilted her head faintly to the right, frowning. Only the Sandsea and Rozarria lay westward. _What business might they have in either one?_

That thought grounded her firmly in reality once more. Rozarria. _One way or another, it is always Rozarria nowadays, isn't it?_

Her imaginary world of memory and reflection collapsed around her, and the voices behind her reached her, reminding her – of who she was, of what her duties were. Of the letter so recently received, causing so much strife and discontent among her council. More to comfort herself than anything else, she cast her gaze downward – at herself.

The Queen's garments of choice were at once like and completely unlike that she had favoured two years prior. Revealing compared to what she had worn up until then, but it was much more akin to what the common people of Dalmasca wore, and she had needed to blend in. Over the years she had grown more comfortable with it. _Not thinking about it helps,_ came the dry thought. Comfortable as she now was with it, though, it would never do for state functions – or for everyday life in the palace. She could just imagine the scandalized looks she would get. _Especially with the skirt._

No, she had returned to more conventionally acceptable fashion over the two years since rising to the throne – though most of her dresses of choice were merely variants of what she was now used to. Her white silk corset was not entirely unlike how it had been, still leaving her shoulders, waist and collar uncovered - yet gold-lined metal jewellery covered her collar and shoulders, covering them yet exposing them, though keeping her back covered for the most part. These were joined together by the choker at her neck and the tops of her silk sleeves, which began short of her shoulders and came to a stop a foot shy of her wrists. A number of bracelets covered her wrists, completing the ensemble.

A long skirt hung off her hips, held in place by a light blue belt of sorts, white lined with gold on all sides – a colour she had grown strangely fond of in those dark years. The skirt flared out slightly to the sides yet kept her legs covered at the back and sides, leaving only the front exposed – and then only barely. The legs themselves were covered in stockings of dark purple, very nearly black in the right light. And rather than boots, she instead wore slippers of light red, very nearly pink.

They lacked metal, though. Nor did she wear bracers, or a tasset, or elbow-guards, or leg-guards. She still felt vulnerable without them. _Such is the price one pays to be a Queen, it would seem._ Beautiful – but of no use in a battle.

Her hands came up and fussed with her hair, still that same medium-length sandy blonde – that much, at least, had not changed, cut in much the same style as it had always been. Only now a crown that seemed more circlet than anything else decorated it, a headband of sorts moving from ear to ear over her head. A pair of white beads tipped with red hung from either side of her face, four in total, framing it – and in line with those beads, two prongs of gold jutted upward from the crown. It was only a small thing, for everyday use; the real crown she wore only during affairs of state.

But it was a badge of her office, a blunt reminder of who she was. There would be no mistaking the Queen of Dalmasca in her own palace.

 _Back into the fray,_ Ashelia thought wryly. It was time to be a Queen once more.

As she turned and withdrew once more into the council chamber, the scents of light incense washed over her from the table immediately in front of the balcony, around which those of her inner council present were gathered – and had been gathered for the past few minutes. _Minutes? It felt like hours,_ she mused.

Time. Time worked in such strange ways, so much so that she suspected she subconsciously wielded her magicks without even realizing it at times. For all she knew, she might have Slowed it to such a degree that she spent hours on that balcony, while only seconds passed in the council room.

She shook her head free of that fancy, beads clicking on either side of her face, grey eyes darting from eye to eye. All were focused on the letter that lay on the table - such a short letter, yet so full of possibility, of cause for concern. Her own joined them. It was not such a huge room – ten metres long and wide, she felt – yet it felt small, even with so few people within it. Two candles and a sconce on the wall by the door were the only lighting the room had.

None of the gathering was happy in the slightest. It was the middle of the night, yet they had been awoken by the arrival of a long-expected letter – which contained unexpected words. They were only five in total, six including her. On the left side of her table immediately adjacent to her stood a sleepy-eyed page, whose name she knew was Noam – a boy who even now attempted to stifle a yawn, yet dutifully held the sheathed blade in his arms, the hilt facing Ashelia.

Time magic or not, she went nowhere unarmed. Some habits she simply refused to shed.

"The gall of the man," muttered a grey-bearded man, with much of his hair missing save for the occasional tuft, his face wrinkled with age – yet a sharp look lingered in his eyes. For all his ridiculous appearance, Ashelia knew him to be wise, experienced – and as quick to anger as she was, for one reason or another. His name was Sermon; and if he had a second name, he had never deigned to share it with anyone. Purple robes covered him from neck to feet, never hinting at whatever lay beneath.

"Which part?" asked another, this one considerably younger, his voice all but dripping with dryness, wearing the half-plate of Dalmascan Knights. Captain Lazarus – Basch's replacement. "Where he speaks as familiarly as thought they were betrothed? Or the way he speaks as though to an inferior?" _Not one to quibble, Lazarus. Blunt and direct. But it takes more than that to be worthy of Captaincy._

"Both!" growled Sermon in response, sparing a passing glare for the much younger man. "And for the letter at all! A mere 'we accept your invitation' would have been enough!"

"I must concur," came the formal declaration of Lady Sasca, who presided over infrastructure – both civilian and military. A pretty woman with flowing gold hair, she was also terrible gaudy, clad in more silks and jewellery than even Ashelia herself – and not showing so much as an inch of skin anywhere except over her bosom. _And I was told my garb was revealing,_ she thought, bitterly.

She tried to cast it aside. She knew why she disliked Sasca, and it had nothing at all to do with the way she dressed, or her simple nature. It wasn't her fault.

The silence stretched a moment, as though those present were waiting for Lady Sasca to speak on – but she continued to stare at the letter, as though attempting to bore a hole in it. Sermon and Lazarus shared a glance, before turning their gazes upon Ashelia.

"Your Majesty-" they both began, looking at one another again. Lazarus bowed somewhat to Sermon, gesturing him on, causing the older man to huff before turning once more to his queen.

"Your Majesty," he repeated, "is it possible we may have made a mistake in inviting this man? The man has enough arrogance to make an Archadian sick. Such a presence would not do well for the treaty, Director or not. Might we not look elsewhere?"

"Rozarrians breathe arrogance, Master Sermon," Ashelia said simply, clasping her hands in front of her skirt, confident in her place. All those present turned their eyes upon her, listening intently. "It is simply how they are; one must take their sort with a healthy dose of salt." The man glanced at their fourth member, before bowing, acceding to her words; she knew more of Rozarria than the rest.

After all, she had dealt with the infamous Al-Cid Margrace on multiple occasions, alongside other Rozarrians – and Al-Cid, as it turned out, was not alone in his oily nature, or his inherent confidence. That same arrogance could be seen in Archadians. _Power. It all comes down to power. One cannot tell a man he has the power to make the world shake, then expect him to walk lightly._

Unfortunately, Al-Cid was determined to woo the Dalmascan Queen, and had been even before she rose to the throne, to the extent that he regularly invited her to his estates. More than once, the rumour had been passed around that they were engaged in an affair. _As if!_ She thought, disgusted at the very idea. She had put an end to such rumours quickly, wherever she found them. The man had all of Balthier's oily wordplay, but none of his charm. _Or heart._

Even then, Lady Sasca gave her Queen a considering look, and it was all Ashelia could do not to hiss at her. _That fool woman believes every rumour to come to her ears._

"Nevertheless, Your Majesty, the good Director's commentary does seem engineered to cause dislike. Methinks he may intend to make the treaty fail," came a new voice, quiet but firm, and Ashelia turned her gaze rightwards past Lady Sasca, as did much of the council. And in the corner of her eye, she saw Lazarus' right hand rest easily on the pommel of his sword. Blessedly, he kept it sheathed.

For all of her confidence, she shared the Captain's unease. _As all wise folk would in the presence of a Dragoon,_ she justified. She schooled herself and her emotions as her eyes passed over the man.

He seemed more akin to a statue than a man, albeit garbed in a strange purple metal that seemed to suck in the light around it rather than stone. Almost demonic spikes jutted out from his armour in varying sizes and locations, reminding Ashelia much of the wyrms she had encountered on her adventures. The metal was plate for the most part, yet scaled in others, covering every inch of his body with a protection that she knew would be very difficult to pierce – if one were lucky enough to even land a blow on the man.

Only his pale jaw was visible, the entirety of his head clad in a helmet, a strange, claw-like visor reaching over his face like a mask, obscuring it from view. It puzzled her how he could even see with that visor, yet not once had she seen him stumble or walk into anything. _Perhaps he can see through it, somehow._ Two draconic horns jutted out from the back of his helmet, completing the ensemble.

More than that, a colossal spear somehow hung to his back – a giant thing no less spiked than his armor, half again as large as the man himself. The spear's tip itself was the length of his entire arm, enough to split a man in half, with the butt of it likewise spiked, albeit much smaller in length and girth. Two wing-like appendages jutted out to the sides on either side of the spear, and she knew from experience that they were not just for decoration; they could be used to parry and block strikes.

Together, the armour and spear had to weigh at least a ton – yet the man never seemed to struggle with the weight at all. _He isn't human,_ she thought – she was sure of it. No human could lift such tremendous weights, or do everything else that Dragoons could do. _Such as leap half a mile into the air._ She had not believed it until she had seen it first hand – and she had not felt ashamed at how her jaw hung open at the sight.

Ashelia was under no delusion. The man could slaughter her entire council – Captain Lazarus included – within moments. _But I am no easy meat, Rozarrian._

"Truly? I must confess, 'tis strange to hear you speak so...uhh...brazenly about your countryman, Sir Dragoon," Lady Sasca said, gazing at the Dragoon. A good point. Too bad she's all but throwing herself at him, she thought, staring at the woman a moment before turning her gaze back to the Dragoon. _Alaric,_ she reminded herself.

The Dragoons were to Rozarria what the Judges were to Archadia – an elite fighting force that also functioned as military commanders. That was where the similarity ended, however. Where Judges were heavily armoured, co-ordinated and widespread, the Dragoons instead wore relatively light armour – _though it doesn't_ look _light_ , Ashelia mused – and were extremely individualistic, keeping to themselves. Their loyalties were twofold; first, to the Emperor of Rozarria, whose very name was a state secret.

The second loyalty they seemed determined to keep to themselves.

He had arrived only a week prior, as a mediator and observer on behalf of the Emperor – or so he claimed. The Treaty, he said, was the business of the Rozarrian Diplomats, but the Emperor had an interest in seeing how affairs played out. For the duration of the Dalmasca-Rozarria proceedings, he was at Queen Ashelia's command, as a gesture of faith.

That did not stop Ashelia or anybody in the Palace from viewing the man with distrust, however. Even in the secretive Empire of Rozarria, next to nothing was known of the Dragoons; what they did, they did for reasons of their own. Unpredictable, secretive, and deadly. _I have been building up to this treaty for two years. I am not going to let one Dragoon ruin it all now._

If the man so much as looked back at Sasca, the visor concealed it; he seemed focused on Ashelia herself. "I am not here as a diplomat, Lady," Alaric said simply, as though that said everything that needed to be said. Lazarus and Sermon once more shared one of those glances, each of them shaking their heads in turn.

"Be that as it may," Ashelia interceded, before Sasca could continue her fawning, "you are here nevertheless. I have never heard of this 'Lannas von Gunther', or the Directorate for Peace."

"We are a secretive nation, Your Majesty," he said, again in that monotonous way. _And you're infuriatingly laconic,_ she countered, schooling her expression not to match her thoughts. She knew full well that she was a woman of passion – in love and in hate, quick to anger and quick to calm. Shed of her preoccupation with Archadia, this trait had once more resurfaced.

"Truer words have never been spoken," muttered Sermon, even as Ashelia continued.

"I trust you know of both?" She waited only long enough for Alaric's nod of confirmation. "Then we would be much obliged if you would share what you know, and put an end to our disadvantage. We cannot well determine our next course of action otherwise, can we?"

At her words, Alaric seemed to deflate slightly. Ashelia got the sense that he was not a fan of speaking – not of Rozarria, but in general. _I wonder if all Dragoons are like that, or just him?_ "Very well, Your Majesty. Attend," he said, with a sharp glance at the other three. Sermon eyed him, Lazarus watched with feigned disinterest, and Sasca all but hung on his every word. _The Royal Council of Dalmasca, in all its glory,_ their Queen thought, suppressing a sigh.

"The Directorate for Peace is essentially Rozarria's diplomatic branch; they handle any and all diplomatic affairs, be they internal or external," he began. "Be it propaganda, handling the citizenry, or engaging non-violently with neighbouring countries; all diplomatic measures are the business of the Directorate."

Ashelia was not the only one to express surprise. _An entire organization just for diplomacy?_ Even Archadia did not have such a group, she knew.

"Accordingly, the Director is the head of the Directorate – and as you know, his name is Lannas von Gunther."

"So, he is a commoner risen to rank?" Lazarus asked, hand never leaving his sword's pommel. _As though that would help you against him,_ Ashelia thought.

"Like you yourself, yes," Alaric said, either ignoring or not seeing the Captain's bristle. "Rozarria is a meritocracy," he continued, apparently believing that sufficed for explanation. Understanding flashed over Sermon and Sasca's faces – Lazarus's, on the other hand, now possessed a frown of confusion.

"In a meritocracy, rank and status are based on merit. Birthright holds less sway than capability; those that possess positions of influence do so because they have earned them, not because they were born to them," Sermon explained before the Captain could ask, his tone one of boredom. Lazarus's frown changed from confusion to surprise; apparently, such a concept was new to him.

"Succinctly put, Master Sermon," Ashelia complimented, even as Alaric nodded silent confirmation. The old man had little time to preen.

"I know you will ask, so I will pre-empt you; he is a middle-aged man of intelligence and experience, polite but as you said...arrogant," he said, a note of dryness entering into his voice. Ashelia did not look away, though she felt she had just been chastised, and was deciding whether or not to be outraged about it or not. _I'm the Queen, but I deserved that, didn't I? Oh, how I hate politics._ It had seemed so simple when she watched her father do it. Two years of it had ensured the novelty wore off.

"He's rather cunning, as well. Make no mistake; he is high in the esteem of the Emperor, and comes here with His Excellency's authority. Bear that in mind when dealing with him."

"I will, Sir Alaric. Thank you," Ashelia said, flatly. That time, she was sure she was being chastised – and she did not approve. Alaric seemed to sense it, as he inclined his head in a half-bow – one of apology, she sensed, which surprised her. However, before she could comment or pry farther, Lazarus spoke up.

"Wish I knew how big that 'honour guard' he mentioned will be." A sideways glance at Alaric revealed nothing, causing the Captain to sigh and again glare at the letter. "Fifteen 'notables', he said. What's that, a hundred and fifty armed men in the palace?"

"Not so many, I think," came Alaric's voice once more, cutting off Sermon's surprised outrage and Sasca's squeak. "The 'notables' he speaks of will not outrank him in any way; more likely they will be comprised primarily of noblemen and women, and a few clerks and assistants for purposes of posterity. I anticipate no more than fifty, with no Dragoons among them," he concluded. At that, Lazarus seemed to settle down.

 _'Only' fifty. Not such a large honour guard, but enough for our purposes. This is only the first treaty out of many,_ she reminded herself. A first step – the first brick for a foundation of peace. The numbers will be larger next time.

"Lady Sasca, you will see to the arrangements for our guests; Captain Lazarus, the security is yours," Ashelia said. It was unnecessary – both knew their jobs – but she had long since learned that certain things were expected by people from their monarch. Leadership was foremost among them. They were expected to take charge and dispense orders and give direction. That much, at least, she would do happily. "Master Sermon, you will be at my side during the negotiations, before and after the Feast." The three named bowed their heads in acknowledgement, with a quiet 'Yes, your Majesty' repeated by each of them.

 _We really need to enlarge this council,_ she realized, abruptly. _I've been too focused on diplomacy with Rozarria._

"Sir Alaric, I would not presume to order you, but it would be appreciated if you too would be at my side during the negotiations – and the feast," she said, causing Lazarus to look up sharply. Before he could object, she carried on. "If you are to be at my command, then I will make use of that – and any insights you may have as to your countrymen would be most useful."

If the man were surprised, none of it showed in his return bow. "As you wish, Your Majesty; my spear is yours." Laconic. No flattery, no scraping; just a simple acknowledgement. _Would that some of my men had your restraint, Dragoon._

"Unless there is anything more to add, I draw this session to a close – and command that you all return to your sorely missed beds," she added lightly, drawing a light chuckle out of Sermon and a titter out of Sasca, the entire group bowing before withdrawing at a gesture of her hand, filing out from the room in short order.

As the others left, Captain Lazarus momentarily turned, bowing again before his Queen as he spoke. "I assure you, Your Majesty; your security will remain my top priority before and after the Feast." Ashelia understood. He had ever been eager to prove himself better than the 'traitor Basch', and worthy of his position of Captaincy. That declaration with Alaric could not have gone down well.

"I thank you, Captain Lazarus. Onwards, then; back to your slumber," she said with a light voice and a lighter smile – the latter of which she feigned. _Protect me if you will, Lazarus. But you are no Captain Basch._

She did not even consider his immediate predecessor. That man had long since died in her memory, even before the warship he had been aboard exploded.

A weak smile passed over the Captain's face before he withdrew – hopeful, but weak. Now, only Alaric and the page remained, the latter watching the departing Captain with no small amount of envy. "Is there something amiss, Sir Alaric?"

"Are you not ill at ease with me at your side, Majesty?" he asked, bluntly, causing Ashelia to raise her brow in question – and some surprise. "Many of those in the palace view me with distrust, this I realize – and you among them, I suspect. The combat ability of my order is widely known, even beyond Rozarria's borders. You are certain having me at your side will not cause you undue concern?"

 _Ahh, so that's it. You think I believe you mean me harm, do you?_ It was a justified belief – Dalmasca and Archadia were close, now. And Ashelia had had unfavourable encounters with Rozarria in the past, before the war.

She still bore a scar of her own, from those days.

"Allow me to make the matter clear to you then, Sir Alaric – I am perfectly comfortable with you at my side, so long as you do not give me cause to doubt your intentions. Does that satisfy you? Or must I demonstrate my magicks to prove my point?" The threat hung in the air, idle though it was. The Queen of Dalmasca's reputation as a powerful Time Mage was in no way fabricated; she was quite certain she could stop the man in his tracks in a heartbeat.

And then open his throat with her blade in the next. The page, suddenly awake, almost seemed to expect it, blade hilt re-positioned towards her.

Queen and Dragoon alike stared at one another, and a cold feeling ran across Ashelia's body. She recognized it. She was prepared to fight, and it was a feeling she had not felt in a very long time.

It was also a feeling that was swiftly proven unnecessary, as Alaric wordlessly bowed at the waist, before proceeding to the door and ducking through, his spear barely making it as the door sealed shut behind him. And as it did, Ashelia sighed, letting out a breath she had not known she was holding. _Did you just challenge a Dragoon in single combat? Have you gone insane, woman?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by another yawn from the page. "You may go, Noam; thank you. You may leave the blade on the table," she declared, with a kindly look at the young boy; it wasn't his fault that he had been woken in the middle of the night, after all. _I would rather carry the blade myself, but apparently that's unladylike, and unworthy of a Queen._ Ridiculous, but there it was.

"Thank you, your Majesty," he murmured, with all the usual bowing and scraping, laying the blade on the table as he backed towards the door, making his way through it and closing it behind him with no less eagerness than any of the others. They loved their Queen.

Apparently, they loved their beds even more.

 _With Larsa in place and Basch at his side, I have Archadia. With Uncle Halim, I have Bhujerba. And Dalmasca is at peace, rebuilding – and the people are happy. I have Dalmasca. Now, all I need is Rozarria._ And then, it would be over. No more war. No more stories of people having their fathers and husbands torn away from them by...

A few seconds passed before her crown struck the table, and immediately her head felt lighter, reaching up with her now-freed hands to run them through her hair with a quiet, private groan. Never, in all her years of dreaming as a Princess, had Ashe thought that being Queen would be this much of a headache. _So much politicking, so many people looking to me for guidance, reading things into every word I say..._

Almost every day spent dealing with documents, with people whose company she could barely abide, who she was not even entirely sure did not want a dagger in her back. Not like how she had thought it would be – no grand parades in the streets, no bathing in the joy of her prosperous peoples.

 _The top is a lonely place to be,_ Ashe thought, a realization that had dawned on her a long time ago. _Larsa has Basch. But who do I have?_

She turned away from the table – from the dark room, from the letter, from the crown – and gazed out from the open balcony into the cloudless night sky, the air washing over her. It smelled like freedom – a thing far beyond her grasp, now. _This was not how it was supposed to be._

The memories washed over Ashe, of happier days – though she had not known it then, travelling across Ivalice, each moment bringing a new threat to face. Faces came to her.

Nearly silver hair and a boyish face, wearing a ring on his finger identical to her own, clad in impervious armour of white and gold. Armour utterly ignored by the arrow that took him in the throat.

Cropped hair and a cocky grin, a gaze that bespoke his confidence that everything would be alright, at ease with his rifle slung over his shoulder. A shoulder that turned away from her when she had needed it.

And most strangely of all, a young boy with brown hair in Dalmascan half-plate from when she had been just a girl, whose name she had never even learned, but whose influence stayed with her beyond memory. A boy who had disappeared forever.

 _I was not supposed to be alone here._

* * *

 **So!**

That brings an end to Chapter 5, my first crack at an Ashe perspective. Hopefully it's not too awful; I was a little uncomfortable with trying to get myself 'into' her character, but I think it came out alright. It may be worth a re-write at some point in the future, however. Turns out it's pretty lonely at the top of the food chain, eh Ashe?

Rozarria is a place that we learn next-to-nothing about from the canon games - so I'm left with a lot of freedom to do with it as I wish. I've already made it clear that I mean for it to be a fairly secretive sort of place, in contrast to Archadia - closed borders, information control, the works. However, there's a few more insights as to the kind of place it is with this chapter - thanks in large part to the Dragoons.

I try to picture Rozarria as being a place of wildly varying terrains. Deserts and arid plains to the east, forests, mountains, all sorts - the sorts of places that standard infantry and cavalry don't do so well in. Thus, the advent of the Dragoon - an infantry type of immense power and agility that can bypass most terrain, acting as incredible scouts, skirmishers and shock troops. Where do Dragoons come from, and why do they have their 'classic' powers in FF12? Well, you'll just have to find out, won't you?

Yes. It has everything to do with a dragon.

Next up will be a Vaan and Penelo chapter, though I've yet to decide from whose perspective I'll be writing it. Probably Penelo, since Vaan takes a much more active role in things, but we'll see!

With that in mind, see you people next time. Reviews, as ever, are extremely welcome; feedback always is.

Also, a couple of visuals. For Ashe, I used a combination of the outfits here; uploads/scale_super/1547/15470456/2945124-ashe_milestone_call+

Alaric, of course, has the classic Dragoon appearance, like so; . /revision/latest?cb=20150530200620


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